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FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 


MARGARET    E.    SANGSTER 


Personal  Reminiscensts 

From  My  Youth  Up 

An  Autobiography. 
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From  a  Daguerreotype  taken  in  1855. 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

From  My  Touth  Up 

Personal  Reminiscences 

By 
MARGARET  E.    SANGSTER 


ILLUSTRATED 


New   York        Chicago         Toronto 

Fleming  H.   Revel!   Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


SECOND  EDITION 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


To 
the  dear  circle  of  my 

kindred, 

my    old    schoolmates,    and 

my  friends,  near  and  far, 

this   book  is  affectionately 

inscribed 


CONTENTS 

I.  BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION         .        .      1 1 

II.  BIRTH  AND  EARLY  YEARS  .        .        .18 

III.  OUR  HOME  SABBATHS        ...      29 

IV.  MY  MOTHER 41 

V.  COMMON  DAYS  AND  GALA  DAYS  .        .      57 

VI.  THE  HOME  LIBRARY  ....      70 

VII.  OLD  FRIENDS 84 

VIII.  PASSAIC  SEMINARY     ....      96 

IX.  A  SCHOOLGIRL  IN  THE  FIFTIES  .        .     1 1 1 

X.  MY  FRENCH  PROFESSOR      .        .        .123 

XI.  DREAMS  AND  FANCIES         .        .        .135 

XII.  THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF   .        .        .148 

XIII.  HINTS  OF  THE  COMING  STORM    .        .     164 

XIV.  IN  WAR  DAYS  .        .        .        .        .     177 

XV.  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR,  AND  THE 

DEATH  OF  LINCOLN        .        .        .192 

XVI.  A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  IN  THE  RECON 

STRUCTION  PERIOD  ....     206 

XVII.  MY  LITERARY  MASTERS      .        .        .221 

XVIII.  THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS  .        .        .236 

XIX.  NEW  ADJUSTMENTS     ....    247 

XX.  THE  DAY'S  WORK      .        .        .        .258 

7 


8 


CONTENTS 


XXI.  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR    . 

XXII.  PEN  PORTRAITS  . 

XXIII.  As  MOTHER  CONFESSOR 

XXIV.  AN  IDEAL  BIBLE  CLASS 

XXV.  FRIENDS  ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE 

XXVI.  THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME 


268 
283 
294 
304 
3H 
324 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  page 
FROM  A  DAGUERREOTYPE  TAKEN  IN  1855  .         .  Title 

FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  TAKEN  IN  NORFOLK,  VIR 
GINIA,  1868 247 

FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  TAKEN  IN  1880        .        .258 

THE  CHILDREN'S  FRIEND 260 

FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  TAKEN  IN  1890        .        .     268 
ON  THE  VERANDA,  GLEN  RIDGE,  NEW  JERSEY, 

1905         •  •  ...     294 

MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER          ....    324 


From  My  Youth  Up 

i 

BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 

THE  question  may  easily  be  asked, 
"  Why  venture  outside  the  seclusion 
of  the  home  and  the  intimacy  of 
personal  friendship,  with  a  book  of  reminis 
cences  ? "  The  answer  is  twofold.  Many 
friends  have  made  the  suggestion  that  the 
story  of  a  literary  career,  if  simply  and 
frankly  told,  may  be  helpful  to  others. 
They  have  been  the  more  urgent  on  this 
score  for  the  reason  that  whatever  meas 
ure  of  success  has  been  mine,  I  have  never 
laid  aside  for  an  hour  or  a  day  my  respon 
sibility  to  the  home  and  hearth,  and  my 
caretaking  of  little  domestic  affairs.  Such 
work  as  I  have  done  has  concerned  itself 
chiefly  with  home  life  and  with  helping  tired 
folk  to  take  fresh  courage  and  bear  their 
burdens  cheerily  and  without  complaint.  It 

11 


12  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

has  been  my  wish  all  along  to  show  the  op 
portunities  that  come  to  those  in  obscure 
places,  who  take  the  days  one  by  one,  and 
use  them  each  as  a  gift  from  a  loving  Father. 
The  day's  work  and  the  day's  wage,  truth, 
valour,  love  and  service,  what  better  things 
than  these  can  we  hope  to  gain  ? 

The  egotism  of  the  book  will  be  pardoned 
if  it  is  observed  that  I  am  trying  to  give 
honour  to  the  true  hearts  of  those  to  whom  I 
owe  whatever  I  have  been  able  to  accomplish 
as  author  and  home-maker.  My  life  of 
author  and  editor  did  not  begin  until  I  had 
passed  my  earliest  youth. 

It  is  evident  to  the  most  casual  spectator 
that  amazing  progress  has  been  made  in 
applied  science  and  useful  inventions  since 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  I 
was  a  schoolgirl  in  the  fifties.  In  my 
childhood  we  were  strangers  to  most  of  the 
conveniences  that  are  now  the  common 
places  of  every-day  use.  We  made  our  own 
candles,  and  our  neighbours  did  the  same. 
We  folded  our  letters  in  such  a  way  that  a 
place  was  left  for  the  address,  and  we  fastened 
them  with  wafers  or  sealing  wax.  I  well  re 
member  the  delight  with  which  I  first  used 
an  envelope.  Photography  was  in  its  infancy 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION          13 

when  I  was  ten.  As  for  the  laying  of  a  cable 
under  the  Atlantic,  a  marvel  that  was  al 
most  accomplished  in  the  year  that  I  was 
a  bride,  the  thought  of  it  would  have  been  re 
garded  as  the  dream  of  a  visionary  in  the  year 
that  I  was  born.  Advances  have  been  made 
everywhere,  in  surgery,  in  hygiene,  in  rapid 
transit,  in  the  carrying  of  messages  around 
the  globe,  in  postal  facilities,  in  pictorial  il 
lustration,  since  the  time  of  my  childhood. 
We  are  living  in  a  wonderful  century,  and 
are  in  peril  of  forgetting  that  the  century  just 
behind  it  was  also  wonderful  and  splendid. 
That  century  laid  the  foundation  for  this, 
and  it  is  the  due  of  those  who  wrought 
well  and  bravely  therein  that  they  should 
not  be  overlooked.  The  education  given 
young  women  in  my  day  differed  in  certain 
details  from  that  which  they  now  receive ; 
but  it  was  not  less  thorough,  less  practical, 
nor  less  available  in  fitting  students  for  the 
future. 

I  have  been  in  touch  for  the  years  of  one 
generation  with  people  all  over  this  land, 
writing  candidly  and  freely  to  thousands 
whose  faces  I  shall  never  see,  replying  to 
their  letters  and  acting  the  part  of  adviser  in 
general  to  my  countrywomen.  This  is  why, 


14 

yielding  to  pressure  from  without,  I  have 
written  this  book. 

My  life  has  been  a  busy  one.  It  has  been 
lived  intensely  in  the  present  moment.  Close 
application,  vivid  impressions  of  the  thing  in 
hand,  and  little  space  for  glancing  backward 
or  looking  forward,  have  been  its  character 
istics.  "  How  do  you  continue  to  keep  in 
touch  with  young  women  ?  "  I  was  asked  the 
other  day.  I  answered,  "  By  thinking  noth 
ing  about  the  difference  between  their  age 
and  mine.  I  probably  feel  younger  to-day 
than  some  of  the  girls  for  whom  I  write." 

It  has  been  a  new  experience  to  sit  down 
with  deliberate  intention  and  recall  past  days. 
If  one  is  to  build  a  house,  she  must  lay  a 
foundation  ;  to  plant  a  garden,  she  must  sew 
her  seeds.  So  my  story  must  begin,  a  little 
abruptly,  with  childhood.  Each  of  us  comes 
into  the  world,  new  and  untried,  yet 
freighted  with  tendencies  and  traits  from 
those  who  have  gone  before.  We  hark  back 
to  the  generations  behind  us,  we  are  like  our 
parents  and  grandparents,  and  so,  to  talk 
about  ourselves  intelligently,  we  must  also 
talk  about  our  forbears.  This  is  why  I  have 
spent  so  much  time  over  the  roseate  period 
of  preparation  and  growth. 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION          15 

Are  our  ways  determined  by  accident  or 
Providence  ?  You  and  I  say  the  latter,  and 
we  believe  it,  yet  apparent  accidents  are 
often  the  means  providentially  used  to 
shape  our  ends.  I  was  sitting  years  ago  on 
a  wide  veranda,  with  an  outlook  over  a  shin 
ing  river.  It  was  early  summer,  and  the  roses 
were  in  bloom.  A  battle-ship  was  anchored 
not  far  away  and  a  band  on  its  deck  began  to 
play,  "  My  Country,  'tis  of  Thee."  Out  of 
space,  a  winged  thought  floated  into  my 
mind,  and  I  wrote  in  pencil  a  bit  of  verse, 
called  "  Are  the  Children  at  Home  ?  "  I  sent 
it  on  a  venture  to  my  favourite  Atlantic 
Monthly  and  the  editor,  Mr.  William  Dean 
Howells,  accepted  and  published  it.  This 
poem  had  an  instant  success.  It  was  copied 
widely  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  as 
well  as  here,  was  read  on  platforms,  and 
brought  me  requests  for  other  work  from 
various  periodicals.  The  fifteen  dollars  paid 
for  it  seemed  larger  to  me  than  checks  for 
much  greater  amounts  have  seemed  since. 

Two  or  three  years  later,  I  wrote  a  short 
story.  I  have  never  written  stories  with 
much  facility,  but  this  one  came  from  my 
heart,  inspired  by  resentment  against  a  wrong 
that  had  not  been  redressed.  This  sketch  I 


16 

sent  flying  to  The  Independent,  and  Oliver 
Johnson  accepted  it  by  return  mail,  with  the 
words,  "  If  you  can  write  like  this,  let  me  see 
other  stories  as  often  as  you  please."  Young 
aspirants  understand  that  this  was  great 
luck,  and  furnished  a  real  incentive  to  further 
effort. 

I  began  then,  being  yet  on  the  sunny  side 
of  thirty,  to  drop  an  essay  or  a  lyric  into  the 
post-box  at  the  street  corner,  saying  so  lit 
tle  about  what  I  was  doing  that  my  family 
did  not  dream  of  my  new  ambition.  In  the 
progress  of  my  narrative,  I  shall  tell  how 
other  accidental  impulses  paved  the  path 
for  what  was  to  be  my  chief  employment 
during  many  of  my  working  years. 

Add  to  enjoyment  in  writing,  an  omnivo 
rous  and  keen  appetite  for  books,  and  almost 
unbroken  health,  with  a  choice  of  oppor 
tunities,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  how  my  life, 
grew  into  literary  lines.  There  is  every 
thing  in  pegging  away.  I  have  never 
stopped.  In  forty  years  I  have  not  had  so 
much  as  a  four  weeks'  vacation  at  any  single 
time. 

I  am  hopeful  that  my  younger  friends,  who 
number  thousands,  will  find  an  interest  in 
my  frank  revelations  and  will  do  whatever 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION          17 

they  attempt  with  both  hands,  and  all  their 
heart,  thinking  less  of  the  wage  than  of  the 
work. 

As  I  think  of  the  friends  I  have  known, 
and  the  gladness  I  have  shared,  I  am  full  of 
gratitude.  The  hope  I  have  as  I  close  this 
chapter  is  that  the  pages  to  follow  may  for 
every  reader  add  something  to  the  joy  of  lifa. 


II 

BIRTH  AND  EARLY  YEARS 

I  WAS  born  on  February  22,  1838,  at 
New  Rochelle,  New  York.  The  night 
was  wild  with  snow  and  bitter  gales, 
and  the  old  farmhouse  that  had  been  a 
tavern  during  the  Revolution  was  buried 
deep  in  drifts  and  rocked  in  the  wintry  storm. 
December  and  January  that  year  had  been 
unusually  mild,  but  February  came  roaring 
in  like  a  lion,  and  the  inclement  weather  did 
not  cease  until  March  was  nearly  over. 

The  room  in  which  I  spent  my  first  three 
months  had  to  me  later  the  fantastic  distinc 
tion  of  having  been  used  by  the  Hessians,  who 
at  one  time  were  quartered  there,  as  a  place 
for  their  nightly  revels.  I  plumed  myself 
through  my  childhood  on  having  Washing 
ton's  birthday  for  mine  and  on  having  slept 
in  an  old  mahogany  cradle  that  was  an  heir 
loom  in  the  family,  in  the  very  room  where 
part  of  the  British  Army  had  made  merry 
and  the  burly  Hessians  had  danced. 

Children  are  odd  little  beings,  and  they 
18 


BIRTH  AND  EARLY  YEARS  19 

do  not  reveal  all  their  secrets  to  older  folk. 
In  my  earliest  studies  of  history,  derived 
largely  from  Peter  Parley,  I  took  sides  with 
intense  enthusiasm  with  the  Colonies  and 
against  King  George,  but  I  can  remember  in 
the  background  of  my  mind  a  lurking  sym 
pathy  with  the  Hessian  contingent  who  were 
paid  to  serve  under  England's  flag  and  who 
must  sometimes  have  had  homesick  hours  in 
that  room  where  I  was  born. 

My  father  and  mother  had  each  been 
married  before,  and  there  was  a  son  of  each 
former  marriage  living  in  the  home  at  the 
time  of  my  birth.  I  was  to  both  the  first 
daughter,  and  very  welcome.  My  mother 
had  passionately  longed  for  her  little  woman- 
child.  A  sister  and  two  brothers  followed  me. 

Mrs.  Oliphant,  in  her  autobiography,  has 
vividly  described  the  delight  felt  by  her 
mother  at  her  arrival.  I  can  well  under 
stand  those  pages  of  hers,  for  never  princess 
of  the  realm  brought  to  any  palace  or  to  any 
queen  greater  joy  than  I  did  to  the  mother 
who  had  prayed  that  God  would  give  her  a 
daughter. 

The  name  Margaret  was  my  natural  in 
heritance,  as  I  was  the  fifth  to  bear  it  in  suc 
cessive  generations.  Both  the  brothers  who 


20  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

were  in  the  house  when  I  came  to  it,  a  wee 
little  maid,  were  destined  to  leave  it  before 
very  long.  My  elder  brother,  my  father's 
only  child  by  his  first  marriage,  was  then 
grown  to  young  manhood,  and  he  soon 
availed  himself  of  a  business  opening  in  the 
South,  went  to  Virginia,  and  there  married 
and  remained  as  a  resident.  During  my 
childhood  and  girlhood  he  occasionally  vis 
ited  us,  and  his  letters  to  me  when  I  grew 
old  enough  for  correspondence  were  a  con 
stant  delight.  The  younger  brother  who 
was  my  mother's  son,  all  that  was  left  to  her 
of  the  first  sweet  romance  of  her  youth,  died 
after  a  short  illness  when  I  was  still  little 
more  than  an  infant. 

This  life  of  mine  through  my  parents 
reaches  back  over  a  long  stretch  of  years. 
My  father,  John  Munson,  was  born  in  Eng 
land  in  1786,  but  spent  most  of  his  boyhood 
in  County  Armagh,  Ireland,  where  his 
father  had  business  interests.  At  eighteen 
the  lad  emigrated  to  Canada.  In  his  early 
manhood  he  made  for  himself  a  place  in  New 
York.  His  name  stands,  with  that  of  other 
well-known  citizens,  in  a  directory  of  New 
York  published  in  1810. 

My  mother,  whose  people  were  Scotch,  was 


BIRTH  AND  EARLY  YEARS  21 

the  eldest  child  of  Thomas  and  Margaret 
Chisholni,  and  was  born  in  New  York  in 
1806.  Her  parents  died  when  she  was  ten 
years  old,  the  one  quickly  following  the 
other  to  the  grave.  She  was  the  eldest  of 
four  children,  and  the  little  orphaned  brood 
were  brought  up  in  the  home  of  their  grand 
father,  David  Kirkaldy. 

My  father's  people  were  Wesleyan  Meth 
odists,  my  mother's  Covenanters  of  the  most 
austere  type.  One  of  my  dearest  recollec 
tions  of  him  is  connected  with  his  walking 
about  the  house  on  the  Sabbath  morning  (we 
never  said  Sunday  then)  a  beatific  look  on  his 
face,  while  from  time  to  time  he  would  sing 
snatches  of  his  favourite  hymns.  Two  that 
I  have  never  forgotten  are 

"  Begone  unbelief,  my  Saviour  is  near, 
And  for  my  relief  He  will  surely  appear. 
By  prayer  let  me  wrestle,  and  He  will  perform  : 
With  Christ  in  the  vessel  I  smile  at  the  storm." 

The  other,  sung  to  a  lilting  measure,  was 

"How  happy  are  they 
Who  their  Saviour  obey, 

And  have  laid  up  their  treasure  above. 
O,  what  tongue  can  express 
The  sweet  comfort  and  bliss 
Of  a  soul  in  its  earliest  love ! " 

My  mother,  brought  up  to  feel  that  silence 


22  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

befitted  the  Lord's  Day,  would  try  to  put 
her  foot  on  the  soft  pedal,  and  say,  "  I 
wouldn't  sing  quite  so  loudly,  John,"  but 
she  could  not  repress  his  mercurial  spirit, 
nor  keep  him  from  showing  the  rollicking 
mood  that  coloured  even  his  piety.  Opti 
mistic,  cheery,  effervescent,  perhaps  over- 
sanguine,  an  idealist  and  a  dreamer,  my 
father  lives  in  my  memory  as  the  most 
charming,  spontaneous,  and  altogether  de 
lightful  of  men.  He  subdued  his  Methodist 
fervour  to  the  severer  dignity  of  Presbyte- 
rianism  when  he  married  my  mother,  twenty 
years  his  junior,  but  the  kindling  flame  was 
always  there,  ready  to  break  into  fire  at  a 
touch.  It  was  characteristic  that  when  they 
married  he  joined  her  church  and  did  not 
ask  her  to  unite  with  his. 

During  my  first  seven  years  the  family 
connection  was  with  the  denomination 
known  as  Reformed  Presbyterian.  We  at 
tended  a  church  in  Sullivan  Street,  New 
York,  for  New  Rochelle  had  been  left  when 
I  was  three,  and  our  minister  was  the  Rev. 
James  Christie,  D.  D.  I  can  recollect  going 
to  church  I  suppose  almost  from  babyhood. 
I  am  sure  I  was  never  left  at  home  after  my 
little  feet  had  learned  to  walk. 


BIRTH  AND  EAELY  YEARS  23 

The  recollections  of  early  childhood  are 
fragmentary,  but  mine  go  back  to  hours  in 
the  firelight  when  I  sat  on  my  father's  knee 
and  he  made  shadow  pictures  on  the  wall  with 
cunning  devices  of  a  handkerchief  held  in  his 
hand,  and  told  stories  that  sank  deep  into  the 
childish  memory.  The  stories  were  a  curious 
jumble.  They  included  ^Esop'i  fables,  fairy 
stories  such  as  "  Hop  O '  My  Thumb," 
"  Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  "  Cinderella,"  and 
"  Red  Ridinghood,"  and  Bible  stories  that 
my  father  related  with  rare  dramatic  art.  I 
learned  of  Abraham  offering  up  Isaac,  of 
Jacob  dreaming  with  a  stone  for  a  pillow 
while  the  angels  went  to  and  fro  between 
earth  and  heaven,  of  Joseph  sold  into  Egypt, 
of  Samuel,  and  David,  and  Daniel,  from  the 
lips  of  a  story-teller  who  related  each  tale  in 
a  fashion  so  picturesque  that  the  attention  of 
little  listeners  never  flagged.  He  told  his 
children  other  stories,  too,  charming  recollec 
tions  of  his  early  life  and  of  a  favourite  uncle 
who  was  eccentric  and  original  with  a  talent 
for  making  verses  and  playing  the  violin. 

The  story  of  an  experience  my  father  had 
as  a  lonely  lad  in  Canada  made  a  deep  im 
pression  on  his  children,  and  we  often  asked 
for  it  as  a  good-night  treat.  I  do  not  know 


24  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

in  what  province  he  lived.  It  might  have 
been  either  Ontario  or  Quebec  or  anywhere. 
In  my  thought  the  location  is  a  myth.  Very 
likely  at  the  time  of  the  telling  geograph 
ical  lines  were  of  little  importance  to  a 
juvenile  audience,  but  here  is  the  sketch 
as  I  see  it  before  me  now :  The  boy  was 
living  with  kindred  on  a  farm,  and  neigh 
bours  were  few  and  far  between.  He  had 
hours  of  yearning  for  those  he  had  left 
beyond  the  sea.  He  had  crossed  the  Atlantic 
in  a  sailing  vessel,  and  it  had  taken  more 
than  a  month  for  the  voyage.  The  home 
land  seemed  at  an  interminable  distance,  but 
he  did  not  care  to  show  those  around  him 
that  he  pined  for  its  voices  and  its  scenes. 
Therefore,  he  would  go  by  himself,  seeking 
solitude  in  the  woods  that  he  might  indulge 
the  mood  of  longing  that  was  often  nigh  to 
heartache. 

Wandering  through  the  forest  on  a  Sab 
bath  afternoon  he  discovered  as  night 
drew  on  that  he  had  lost  his  way.  Every 
one  who  has  ever  had  the  experience  knows 
how  baffling  and  puzzling  to  the  sight 
is  an  assemblage  of  trees  when  there  is 
neither  path  nor  clue.  The  boy  found  him 
self  more  and  more  uncertain  and  bewildered, 


BIRTH  AND  EARLY  YEARS  25 

and  as  the  sun  went  down  he  feared  that  he 
must  spend  the  night  alone  in  the  woods. 
He  did  then  what  he  did  always  throughout 
his  life  when  in  doubt.  Kneeling  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree  he  asked  the  Father  above  to  care 
for  His  child  and  lead  him  safe  back  to  the 
house  he  had  left.  Rising,  he  heard  the 
faint  tinkle  of  a  cow-bell,  and  the  sweet  sound 
guided  him  out  of  the  forest  and  back  to  the 
hearth.  If  it  has  been  my  lifelong  habit 
simply  to  carry  every  little  thing  to  God,  I 
have  to  thank  my  father  for  this  and  other 
object-lessons  in  faith  in  my  earliest  days. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  four  children  in  our 
home.  Of  the  four  I  am  the  only  survivor. 
My  mother  taught  us  all  to  read,  and  it  may 
surprise  the  young  mothers  of  the  present 
day  to  be  told  that  three  of  us  knew  the  al 
phabet  by  the  time  we  were  three  years  old. 
I  could  read  easy  lessons  soon  after  my  third 
birthday,  and  at  four  was  able  to  read  with 
out  the  least  difficulty  any  printed  page  that 
came  in  my  way.  Very  much  as  John 
Ruskin's  mother  did,  my  mother  used  the 
Psalms  and  the  Proverbs  in  the  reading  les 
sons  of  her  little  children.  My  youngest 
brother  was  the  only  one  of  the  group  who 
did  not  respond  to  her  gentle  efforts,  and  he 


26  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

was  regarded  by  pitying  neighbours  as  a 
marvel  of  dullness.  He  did  not  learn  to 
read  until  he  was  past  seven.  At  that  age  I 
was  reading  Colonial  history  and  learning 
pages  of  Peter  Parley  by  heart. 

At  six  I  stood  on  a  platform  in  a  little 
private  school  taught  by  my  earliest  teacher, 
Miss  Halstead,  and  recited  without  a  break  a 
speech  made  in  Parliament  concerning  the 
Stamp  Act,  by  the  Earl  of  Chatham.  My 
spelling  book  had  blue  covers  and  bore  the 
name,  time-honoured  and  famous,  of  Noah 
Webster.  I  had  a  little  red-bound  book 
called  Swift's  Philosophy,  natural  not  moral 
philosophy,  that  was  my  delight.  It  was  in 
the  form  of  questions  and  answers  and  dealt 
with  practical  matters,  such  as  the  cooling  of 
tea  by  pouring  it  out  of  a  cup  into  a  saucer, 
and  the  disintegration  of  lumps  of  sugar  by 
dropping  them  into  a  tumbler  of  water.  The 
colouring  of  a  glass  of  water  by  the  addition 
of  a  drop  of  ink  was  another  simple  experi 
ment  that  went  with  this  elementary  book. 

I  balked  at  nothing  except  the  multipli 
cation  table,  but  figures  then  as  now  waved 
menacing  fingers  before  my  eyes.  I  was  wo- 
fully  slow  and  clumsy  in  learning  to  manage 
a  pen,  and  while  reading  came  to  me  as  by 


27 

magic,  writing  was  an  accomplishment  that 
I  acquired  slowly  and  with  tears.  This  may 
have  been  due  partly  to  the  fact  that  I  ac 
quired  the  rudiments  of  writing  by  means  of 
slate  and  pencil.  One  was  permitted  to  hold 
a  pencil  in  a  tight  little  grasp  and  might 
guide  it  as  one  chose,  but  when  it  was  a  ques 
tion  of  writing  in  a  copy-book  the  pen  had 
to  be  held  loosely  in  the  hand,  pointing  in  a 
positive  direction  while  the  fingers  moved 
gracefully  across  the  page.  My  teachers 
finally  gave  up  the  struggle  in  despair  and 
suffered  me  to  hold  the  pen  in  any  way  I 
liked.  Not  until  then  did  I  learn  to  write 
legibly,  and  by  that  time  I  was  ten. 

In  these  days  of  careful  kindergarten  train 
ing  the  mother  would  be  singular  who  allowed 
her  children  to  begin  the  three  R's  as  they 
were  called,  meaning  reading,  writing  and 
arithmetic,  before  they  had  fully  emerged 
from  the  nursery,  but  we  were  not  excep 
tional.  Most  of  my  little  schoolmates  started 
in  the  race  as  early  as  I  did,  and  one  dear 
child  who  was  my  playmate  had  known  her 
letters  before  she  was  two.  I  think  we  were 
saved  from  danger  to  health  by  the  whole 
some  simplicity  of  our  lives. 

Children  in  my  time  did  not  occupy  the 


28  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

centre  of  the  stage ;  they  lived  in  a  happy, 
homely  background,  and  when  visitors  were 
present  were  seen  and  not  heard.  No  child 
in  our  household  felt  privileged  to  force  his  or 
her  affairs  on  any  one's  attention  at  an  incon 
venient  time.  As  a  friend  of  mine  tersely 
puts  it,  "  The  children  of  our  period  were 
washed  and  dressed  and  put  in  a  corner." 
In  their  corner  they  had  plenty  of  fun  and 
abundant  freedom,  but  it  was  the  happy 
freedom  that  is  possible  when  obedience  is  so 
much  the  habit  that  it  is  automatic,  and 
children  look  up  to  parents  as  infallible. 

A  childhood  such  as  mine,  free  from  ill 
ness,  free  from  responsibility  except  as  to 
little  household  tasks,  made  a  good  starting- 
point  for  the  days  which  were  to  come. 


Ill 

OUR  HOME  SABBATHS 

I  HAVE  spoken  of  going  to  church  when 
I  was  hardly  out  of  infancy.  No  doubt, 
at  first,  I  spent  most  of  my  time  in  the 
pew  with  my  mother's  arm  around  me  and 
my  head  against  her  breast.  A  nap  could 
be  taken  in  the  pew  as  comfortably  as  on 
the  lounge  at  home.  Little  hats  and  wraps 
were  removed,  and  sensible  mothers  made 
the  babies  comfortable.  They  were  expected 
not  to  disturb  the  congregation  by  talk 
ing  or  moving  about,  and  they  early  learned 
one  of  life's  most  important  lessons — the 
art  of  sitting  still.  But  sleep  was  not 
denied  them.  When  a  little  older  I  used  to 
have  a  pencil  and  paper,  and  during  the 
minister's  sermon  I  could  draw  pictures  or 
print  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  Later,  I 
always  had  a  book,  and  it  has  often  since 
been  a  source  of  surprise  that  I  was  never 
chided  for  reading  it  during  the  sermon. 

An  incident  that  was  almost  an  event  oc 
curred  in  my  eighth  year.     I  seldom  went  to 

29 


30  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

church  by  myself,  but  on  the  occasion  referred 
to  I  had  gone  to  Sunday-school  and  when  it 
was  over  had  slipped  from  the  Sunday-school 
room  into  the  church  and  taken  my  place  in 
the  pew,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  rest  of  the 
household.  The  Sunday-school  was  held  at 
two  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  church  service 
followed.  As  usual,  I  seated  myself  and 
opened  my  library  book.  I  distinctly  re 
member  what  it  was,  a  curious  book  to  have 
absorbed  the  complete  attention  of  a  little 
girl  of  eight.  It  was  the  Memoir  of  Colonel 
Gardener,  a  man  who  in  his  youth  was  a 
blasphemer,  but  who  was  converted  after  a 
series  of  strange  experiences,  becoming 
finally  a  devoted  gospel  minister.  I  read 
straight  on  page  after  page  for  a  long  time. 
Awakened  suddenly  with  a  start  to  the 
knowledge  that  I  was  all  alone  in  the  big 
church,  I  realized  that  the  short  winter  after 
noon  was  drawing  to  a  close,  the  shadows  were 
deepening,  there  was  no  familiar  form  in  the 
pulpit,  the  choir  seats  were  vacant.  There 
was  nobody  in  our  pew  or  in  any  other.  One 
solitary  child  in  a  blue  frock  with  a  little 
blue  coat  and  a  hat  tied  under  her  chin  was 
the  sole  occupant  of  the  deserted  place,  and 
she  had  been  reading  the  Life  of  Colonel 


OUR  HOME  SABBATHS  31 

Gardener  with  such  absorbed  interest  that 
she  had  not  missed  the  organ,  the  voice  of  the 
preacher,  noticed  the  absence  of  the  congrega 
tion,  or  anything  connected  with  the  service. 

They  used  to  say  when  I  was  a  child  that 
I  was  always  lost  in  a  book.  I  certainly 
lost  myself  in  it  on  that  Sabbath  afternoon. 
Flying  down  the  aisle  with  indecorous  haste 
I  found  the  great  doors  shut  and  locked. 
The  horror  of  the  situation  can  hardly  be 
described.  I  remember  calling  out,  "  Must 
I  stay  in  this  dreadful  place  till  I  die  ?  " 
People  passing  on  the  street  heard  my 
lamentation,  the  sexton  was  sent  for,  and 
the  little  prisoner  was  released.  The  expla 
nation  was  that  there  was  no  service  on  that 
particular  afternoon,  and  I  had  not  heard  the 
announcement,  although  no  doubt  every  one 
took  it  for  granted  that  I  had  been  told. 
The  sexton  going  about  to  close  the  church 
had  quite  overlooked  the  small  maiden 
nestling  contentedly  over  a  book  in  a  pew 
half-way  down  the  church. 

At  the  time  of  this  occurrence  we  lived  in 
Paterson,  New  Jersey,  where  much  of  my 
childhood  was  passed.  We  were  a  migratory 
family.  My  father  had  a  restless  turn,  and 
had  a  fancy  for  moving  on  from  place  to 


32 

place,  making  exchanges  of  real  estate,  fre 
quently  to  the  depletion  of  his  resources. 
Thus  we  moved  from  New  Rochelle  to  New 
York  in  my  infancy  and  from  New  York  to 
Paterson  at  a  later  period. 

As  I  have  already  said,  we  attended  the  Re 
formed  Presbyterian  Church  in  New  York.  I 
am  glad  of  this,  for  the  few  years  spent  there 
abide  with  me  in  a  series  of  pictures.  I  think 
it  is  Edmund  Gosse  who  in  "  Father  and 
Son  "  speaks  of  a  wild  lyrical  ballad,  called 
the  Cameronian's  Dream  as  a  part  of  the 
literary  furnishing  of  his  childhood.  I,  too, 
remember  that  poem,  beginning 

"  In  a  dream  of  the  night  I  was  wafted  away 
To  the  moorlands  of  mist  where  the  brave 
martyrs  lay," 

and  I  have  not  forgotten  the  passion  of  sym 
pathy  that  filled  my  soul  when  I  read  those 
flaming  lines. 

The  services  in  the  Sullivan  Street  Church, 
New  York,  were  very  long,  never  so  long,  how 
ever,  as  on  Communion  Sundays.  The  Lord's 
Supper  was  served  at  narrow  tables  set  between 
the  pews  and  the  pulpit,  and  sometimes  ex 
tending  part  of  the  way  down  the  aisle. 
These  tables  were  covered  with  a  white  cloth, 


OUR  HOME  SABBATHS  33 

and  the  communicants  went  to  them  in 
companies  and  were  addressed,  a  table  at  a 
time,  by  the  different  ministers  present  on 
the  occasion.  There  were  invariably  several 
of  these.  As  the  successive  companies  went 
to  take  the  Sacrament  each  church-member 
dropped  into  the  hand  of  an  elder  a  little 
lead  token  that  had  been  given  out  at  the 
final  preparatory  service  on  Saturday  even 
ing.  They  always  went  to  and  returned 
from  the  table  singing  the  Forty-fifth  Psalm 
in  Rouse's  version.  There  are  seventeen 
couplets.  If  it  happened  to  be  necessary  the 
communicants  began  it  again  after  singing 
the  last  stanza.  I  quote  a  part  of  it.  The 
whole  is  quaint  and  rugged  and  not  very 
metrical,  but  no  sacred  music  has  since 
sounded  to  me  so  much  as  if,  like  that,  it 
had  caught  a  note  from  the  hearts  of  heaven. 
The  King's  Daughters  have  adopted  the 
Forty-fifth  Psalm  as  their  own,  and  yet  prob 
ably  few  wearers  of  the  silver  cross  are  famil 
iar  with  the  verses  that  I  love  best  in  this 
old  Psalm  of  my  forefathers. 

"Behold,  the  daughter  of  the  King 

All  glorious  is  within  ; 
And  with  embroideries  of  gold 
Her  garments  wrought  have  Ueen. 


34  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

She  shall  be  brought  unto  the  King 
In  robes  with  needle  wrought ; 

Her  fellow-virgins  following 
Shall  unto  thee  be  brought. 


"  They  shall  be  brought  with  gladness  great, 

And  mirth  on  every  side, 
Into  the  palace  of  the  King, 

And  there  they  shall  abide. 
Instead  of  those  thy  fathers  dear, 

Thy  children  thou  inay'st  take, 
And  in  all  places  of  the  earth 

Them,  noble  princes  make." 


A  feature  of  the  singing  that  was  peculiar  to 
the  Lord's  Supper  was  the  reading  of  the 
hymn,  two  lines  at  a  time,  by  the  minister, 
or  four  lines,  it  might  be.  The  congregation, 
all  of  whom  must  have  known  the  words  by 
heart,  sang  it  after  the  reading.  This  may 
have  been  a  custom  originally  due  to  the 
hardships  of  the  persecution,  when  the  Cove 
nanters  were  forced  to  worship  where  they 
could,  now  in  a  shepherd's  cot,  again  in  barn 
or  byre,  or  out  under  the  open  sky  hidden 
among  the  heather,  lest  their  enemies  should 
break  up  their  solemn  assemblies.  At  such 
seasons  books  might  have  been  encumbran 
ces  and  the  minister's  voice  have  taken  their 
place. 

The  Lord's  Day  was  very  sacredly  kept  in 


OUR  HOME  SABBATHS  35 

our  house.  On  Saturday  afternoon  toys  and 
secular  books,  every  vestige  of  sewing  and 
everything  that  belonged  to  the  week's  tasks 
were  laid  aside  until  Monday.  The  meals 
for  the  Sabbath  were  mainly  cooked  on  Sat 
urday.  Vegetables,  previously  prepared  and 
needing  only  to  be  set  for  a  while  over  the 
fire,  were  commonly  added  to  the  cold  roast, 
and  tea  and  coffee  were  made  as  usual,  but 
there  was  a  minimum  of  labour  on  the  sacred 
day.  We  had  laid  out  for  us,  or  we  laid  out 
ourselves,  on  Saturday  evening,  the  clothes 
to  be  worn  the  next  day,  and  if  stitches  had 
been  neglected  they  were  not  taken  on  Sun 
day.  The  garments  were  worn  unmended, 
if  there  had  been  forgetfulness  or  neglect. 

Until  I  was  eighteen  it  never  occurred  to 
me  to  sit  beside  a  front  window  and  look  out 
on  the  street  on  the  Sabbath  Day.  Our 
library  was  well  stocked  with  standard  books 
of  a  thoughtful  and  homiletic  description, 
but  there  were  few  books  in  it  adapted  to 
youthful  reading  of  the  sort  that  our  chil 
dren  have  without  stint.  My  great  standby 
during  my  childhood  for  Sunday  reading, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  was  Matthew  Henry's 
Commentary  on  the  Bible.  Over  the  big 
volumes  I  would  linger,  finding  them  any- 


36  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

thing  but  wearisome.  The  books  brought 
home  from  the  Sunday-school  library  were 
not  questioned,  and  as  I  recall  them  they 
were,  on  the  whole,  very  well  chosen.  The 
stories  were  not  exciting,  and  some  of  them, 
like  "  Little  Henry  and  His  Bearer,"  were 
stepping-stones  towards  interest  in  foreign 
missions. 

We  recited  the  Shorter  Catechism  after 
supper  on  Sunday  evenings,  dividing  it 
into  three  parts.  The  first  division  compre 
hended  the  questions  and  answers,  from 
"  What  is  the  chief  end  of  man  ? "  to  the 
commandments.  The  second  section  with 
the  commandments  and  their  accompanying 
questions  "  What  is  required?  "  and  "  What  is 
forbidden?"  occupied  another  evening,  and 
the  third  division  included  all  that  followed 
after  the  commandments  until  the  end  of  the 
Catechism.  By  continual  repetition  we  as 
similated  the  Shorter  Catechism  until  it  be 
came  inwrought  with  the  fibres  of  character. 

Although  our  Sabbaths  were  so  strictly 
kept  they  were  cheerful  and  bright,  and  we 
never  dreaded  them  as  dreary,  or  thought  of 
their  service  as  bondage.  They  were  in 
truth  the  golden  clasp  of  the  week.  Going 
to  church  was  a  weekly  festival,  charming 


OUR  HOME  SABBATHS  37 

from  the  time  we  set  out  as  a  family,  two  by 
two,  my  mother  always  taking  my  father's 
arm,  until  we  came  home  again  the  happier 
for  having  met  old  friends,  some  of  whom 
often  returned  with  us.  Ours  was  a  home  of 
hospitality,  and  the  extra  cup  and  plate  were 
a  matter  of  course.  I  can  hear,  if  I  close  my 
eyes,  and  let  myself  drift  into  the  past,  the 
minister's  voice  as  he  began  the  long  prayer 
with  "Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Al 
mighty,"  and  I  recall  certain  chapters  that 
he  used  to  read  in  cadences  that  linger  with 
me  in  solemn  melody.  Sometimes  it  was 
"  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd  I  shall  not 
want ; "  again,  "  Let  not  your  heart  be 
troubled,"  or  "  Ho,  every  one  that  thirsteth, 
come  ye  to  the  waters,"  or  "Comfort  ye,  com 
fort  ye,  my  people." 

Once  when  an  old  husband  and  wife  had 
died  almost  together,  and  their  friends  were 
plunged  into  mourning,  the  child  in  the  pew 
heard  the  minister  read  a  chapter  in  Luke 
where  the  phrase  occurs,  "  Pray  ye  that  your 
flight  be  not  in  the  winter."  She  still  re 
members  how  the  phrase  impressed  her  with 
a  sense  of  awe. 

We  had  family  worship  twice  every  day  ; 
in  the  morning  just  after  breakfast,  and  in 


38  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

the  evening  after  supper.  It  was  conducted 
with  a  little  ceremony.  My  father  would 
take  the  Bible  reverently  and  hold  it  in  his 
hand  for  a  little  space.  "  I  am  composing 
my  mind,"  he  would  say.  He  did  not  read 
the  Book  in  course,  either  straight  through 
the  Old  or  straight  through  the  New  Testa 
ment,  as  was  the  pious  custom  of  many,  but 
he  often  read  a  book  at  a  time.  I  do  not 
mean  a  book  at  a  sitting.  There  is  a  story 
told  about  Thomas  Carlyle  that  he  once  read 
the  whole  Book  of  Job  without  stopping 
when  asked  to  lead  in  worship  in  a  friend's 
house.  A  single  chapter  was  usually  our 
portion,  then  a  simple  prayer,  concluding 
with  "  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,"  re 
peated  in  concert.  When  twice  a  day  the 
family  listened  to  the  words  of  Isaiah  and 
John,  when  over  and  over  they  heard  the 
Psalms  and  the  Proverbs,  when  the  Bible 
stories  and  the  Bible  names  were  literally 
household  words,  people  in  general  knew 
their  Bibles. 

f  If  family  worship  could  be  restored  in  the 
Christian  households  of  our  land,  there  would 
be  less  need  than  now  to  deplore  an  increas 
ing  ignorance  on  the  part  of  the  young  of  our 
beautiful  English  Bible.  It  was  less  possible 


OUB,  HOME  SABBATHS  39 

half  a  century  ago  than  now  to  puzzle  college 
students  by  offering  them  a  list  of  questions 
on  the  Bible,  some  of  which  are  purposely 
misleading. 

My  father's  prayers  were  very  direct. 
They  were  full  of  thanksgiving.  Never  did 
they  wound  the  feelings  of  any  one.  A 
schoolmate  whose  father  was  of  a  different 
type  told  me  that  she  and  her  brothers 
and  sisters  disliked  the  evening  family 
prayer,  because  her  father  took  that  oppor 
tunity  to  review  the  faults  of  the  children 
in  much  detail,  in  the  ear  of  the  Lord.  In 
stead  of  producing  the  effect  he  hoped  for,  a 
contrary  result  ensued.  The  children  were 
not  brought  to  penitence,  but  were  made 
resentful  and  rebellious. 

There  were  homes  in  which  each  child  re 
peated  a  text  at  family  prayer.  In  one  of  the 
loveliest  Christian  homes  in  which  I  have 
ever  been  a  guest  this  custom  has  been  re 
tained  and  now  the  few  who  are  left  of  the 
brothers  and  sisters  past  middle  age  daily 
repeat  a  verse  from  the  oldest  to  the 
youngest,  and  are  then  led  in  prayer. 
Whatever  the  form  taken  by  family  devo 
tions,  the  spirit  fosters  the  best  realities  in 
family  life.  Daily  household  prayer  links 


40  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

the  earthly  to  the  heavenly  home,  gives  in 
fact  a  new  meaning  to  that  wonderful 
phrase  of  St.  Paul,  "  the  whole  family  in 
heaven  and  on  earth." 


IV 

MY  MOTHER 

MY  mother  was  the  pervading  genius, 
the  uncrowned  queen,  the  unques 
tioned  autocrat  of  my  childhood's 
home.  When  I  read  J.  M.  Barrie's  "  Mar 
garet  Ogilvie,"  I  was  reminded  on  many  a 
page  of  my  own  precious  mother.  Although 
born  in  New  York  she  was  far  more  through 
her  entire  life  a  daughter  of  Scotland  than 
of  this  country.  She  possessed  the  reticence, 
the  unswerving  fidelity,  the  simplicity  and 
the  undaunted  courage  of  the  race  from 
which  she  came.  In  1806  her  father  carried 
on  a  business  in  marble  and  stone  in  that 
part  of  New  York  City  which  has  been  de 
nominated  Greenwich  Village. 

In  the  Diary  of  Philip  Hone,  an  old  New 
Yorker,  the  life  of  that  day  is  vividly  por 
trayed.  All  the  great  bustling  city  that  now 
extends  so  far  and  makes  the  home  of  so 
vast  a  population,  was  then  non-existent. 
A  few  houses,  a  few  streets,  a  few  churches 
made  up  the  story  of  the  town.  The  East 

41 


42  FEOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

River,  to-day  spanned  by  bridges,  traversed  by 
ferries  and  tunnelled  beneath  its  waves,  was 
then  crossed  in  rowboats  and  sailboats  by  pas 
sengers  who  had  errands  of  business  or  pleas 
ure  on  either  of  its  banks.  Fields  and  farms 
stretched  smilingly  where  to-day  are  lofty 
buildings  twenty  stories  high.  A  niece  of 
mine  riding  one  day  in  an  electric  car  in  the 
lower  part  of  Broadway  asked  the  conductor 
to  stop  at  Maiden  Lane,  saying  that  she  did 
not  know  where  it  was.  An  old  gentleman 
sitting  beside  her,  with  wrinkled  hands  on  a 
gold-headed  cane,  observed  quietly,  "  Your 
grandmother  knew  where  Maiden  Lane  was, 
I  am  sure." 

Water  was  then  drawn  from  wells,  and 
wooden  pumps  stood  on  street  corners. 
Every  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  a  bell  was 
heard  in  the  streets  and  the  tea-water  man 
stopped  at  the  houses  of  his  customers  to 
supply  them  with  pure  water  for  the  making 
of  tea.  I  regret  that  I  did  not  lay  up  in 
memory  more  that  my  mother  used  to  tell 
me  of  her  early  years.  She  was  married  for 
the  first  time  when  she  was  barely  eighteen, 
and  at  twenty-two  was  a  widow.  Eight 
years  afterwards  she  was  married  to  my 
father. 


MY  MOTHER  43 

Of  her  beauty,  that  of  a  rose  in  hloom, 
there  were  traditions,  and  they  could  not 
have  been  exaggerated.  She  must  have  been 
an  extremely  beautiful  girl  for  in  her  ma 
turity  her  delicate  complexion,  large  blue 
eyes  and  winsome  smile  were  extremely  at 
tractive.  She  was  not  tall,  and  her  figure 
was  always  slight.  I  cannot  remember  ever 
seeing  her  outside  her  own  chamber  without 
a  soft  white  cap  over  the  masses  of  her  won 
derful  hair.  Its  colour  was  a  rich  dark  red, 
the  real  Titian  hue.  To  the  end  of  her  life 
her  hair  when  uncoiled  fell  far  below  her 
waist  and  made  a  thick  coil  that  ought  not 
to  have  been  concealed.  She  had  put  on 
caps  before  she  was  thirty,  and  never  laid 
them  off. 

My  own  hair  had  silver  threads  in  it 
when  I  was  twenty-five,  but  at  seventy-four 
my  mother's  retained  its  colour  with  only 
the  slightest  sprinkling,  towards  the  end,  of 
a  little  white  in  front,  like  the  sifting  of  a 
fine  powder. 

There  was  nothing  that  my  mother  could 
not  do  in  the  line  of  housekeeping  or  with 
her  needle.  Without  fuss  or  flurry  she  su 
pervised  the  household,  perfectly  able  to  do 
her  own  work,  if  that  were  necessary,  per- 


44 

fectly  just  in  her  requirements  of  any  one 
who  served  her,  never  disturbed  by  the  un 
expected  advent  of  guests,  always  open- 
handed  and  hospitable,  and  invariably  more 
exacting  with  herself  than  with  others.  She 
made  our  clothing,  lavishing  beautiful  needle 
work  on  undergarments,  while  contented  to 
let  the  outer  frocks  and  cloaks  wear  a  look 
of  plainness.  One  of  her  maxims  was,  "Take 
most  pains  with  what  is  out  of  sight."  She 
could  see  a  garment  worn  on  the  street,  come 
home  and  cut  it  out  without  a  pattern  ;  she 
could  give  her  little  boys  a  thoroughly  well- 
dressed  look  in  suits  originally  worn  by  their 
father,  and  she  possessed  beyond  any  one  I 
have  ever  known  what  may  be  called  the 
gift  of  making  the  most  of  a  little. 

Her  will  was  law.  No  child  so  much  as 
thought  of  disputing  it,  though  her  voice 
was  never  raised  and  her  manner  was  quiet 
and  gentle.  She  was  timid  to  a  degree,  and 
especially  disliked  to  go  into  any  place  where 
she  must  take  the  initiative  among  stran 
gers.  Still,  if  obliged  to  do  so,  she  rose  to 
the  occasion  concealing  her  diffidence  so 
well  that  only  those  who  knew  her  best 
were  aware  of  the  effort  she  was  making. 
If  a  maid  left,  the  advent  of  another  was 


MY  MOTHER  45 

dreaded,  and  we  would  hear  the  dread  ex 
pressed  in  such  a  sentence  as  "  I  wish  the 
next  day  or  two  were  over.  It  is  so  hard  for 
me  to  have  a  strange  person  in  the  kitchen." 
I  remember  a  time  when  several  housemaids 
had  been  tried  in  turn,  weighed  in  the  bal 
ances  and  found  wanting.  One  after  an 
other  had  been  dismissed.  Finally  a  woman 
was  engaged  who  brought  no  credentials,  but 
something  in  her  bearing  and  countenance 
proved  a  recommendation.  She  was  very  neat, 
but  evidently  very  poor,  coming  with  a  meagre 
outfit  of  clothing.  She  went  about  her  work 
swiftly  and  capably,  did  as  she  was  told,  and 
had  a  talent  for  silence  and  for  speaking  in 
monosyllables  that  caused  my  father  to  name 
her  "  the  sphinx."  The  name  she  gave  us 
was  Rachel  Anne.  I  may  mention,  by  the 
way,  that  this  was  the  era  of  Mary  Anne, 
Eliza  Jane,  Susan  Elizabeth,  and  the  like. 
A  Susan  Elizabeth  might  be  shortened  to 
Susie  Lib,  but  the  Mary  Annes  and  Mary 
Janes  received  the  full  benefit  of  both  the 
names  bestowed  upon  them  in  baptism. 
Ediths,  Dorothys  and  Ethels,  Marjories  and 
Margarets  had  not  then  come  into  fashion. 
All  my  young  friends  pitied  me  because  my 
name  was  Margaret,  and  I  pitied  myself. 


46  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Our  Rachel  Anne  had  one  peculiarity 
She  was  on  the  watch  constantly  in  a  sort 
of  restrained  terror  lest  strange  men  should 
appear  at  the  house,  and  if  any  such  drove 
up  in  a  buggy,  she  fled  to  the  attic  and  hid 
herself  in  its  remotest  corner.  No  one  ever 
asked  for  her,  and  there  was  no  reason  to 
imagine  her  as  a  woman  with  a  record  of 
crime  in  the  past,  yet  she  bore  herself  as  if 
she  were  an  escaped  convict,  and  we  often 
thought  that  she  might  have  been  in  prison. 
She  remained  in  our  home  for  some  years, 
and  mysteriously  departed  at  last,  in  the 
night. 

My  mother  was  the  best  of  nurses.  No 
professional  nurse  excelled  her  in  the  care  of 
the  sick,  and  she  gave  her  knowledge  of 
nursing  and  her  unselfish  watchfulness  to 
friends  and  neighbours  as  freely  as  to  her 
family.  Trained  nurses,  skilled  and  intelli 
gent,  were  not  then  to  be  had.  When  there 
was  extreme  illness  in  a  house  members  of 
the  family  took  turns  in  looking  after  the 
patient,  and  in  each  group  of  friends  there 
was  sure  to  be  some  one  who  knew  what  to 
do  and  how  to  do  it,  as  if  by  magic.  I  re 
member,  and  it  is  almost  my  first  shadow, 
the  day  when  an  uncle,  young  and  dearly 


MY  MOTHER  47 

loved,  came  to  his  sister's  very  ill.     He  lived 
only  a  week  or  two  and  passed  away. 

A  little  later  a  brother  of  mine,  a  noble 
little  laddie,  was  taken  ill,  and  after  four 
weeks  of  pain  and  struggle  was  carried 
beyond  all  pain  to  the  home  of  the  blessed 
on  high.  The  day  before  his  death  the 
child  was  left  alone  for  a  moment,  and  his 
mother  coming  to  the  door  overheard  his 
little  whispered  prayer,  "  O  Jesus,  go  with 
me  through  the  dark  valley,  and  keep  Satan 
from  troubling  me."  The  death  of  this  dear 
child  for  a  long  time  eclipsed  the  joy  of  the 
household.  With  all  her  faith,  and  she  had 
a  large  share  of  it,  the  mother  could  not 
rise  above  the  sadness  of  the  bereavement. 
She  went  about  so  white  and  still,  so  crushed, 
so  aloof,  that  it  seemed  to  the  rest  of  us  as 
if  a  wintry  frost  had  settled  down  upon  the 
garden  of  our  lives.  Nothing  for  a  long  time 
cheered  her,  and  it  sometimes  seemed  almost 
as  if  her  heart  had  been  buried  in  the  grave 
of  her  little  David,  and  as  if  she  did  not  care 
for  those  who  were  left.  Her  nature  was  not 
one  that  easily  resisted  sorrow,  and  yet  in 
after  years  when  she  was  suddenly  widowed, 
and  was  obliged  to  step  to  the  front  and 
assume  responsibilities  new  to  her,  she  bore 


48  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

herself  with  a  fortitude  that  I  now  under 
stand  was  heroism. 

She  had  the  Scottish  tendency  to  mysti 
cism,  and  more  than  once  there  came  to  her 
in  times  of  great  anxiety  or  acute  distress 
such  a  waft  from  the  unseen  shores,  such 
real  help  from  heaven  that  it  was  as  if  she 
had  beheld  a  vision  of  angels.  My  little 
book,  "When  Angels  Come  to  Men,"  was 
written  long  after  my  mother  had  gone 
home,  in  fulfillment  of  a  promise  made  to 
her  that  I  would  make  a  study  of  the  angels 
as  they  are  described  in  the  Bible. 

Until  her  fiftieth  year,  though  fragile,  she 
possessed  an  elasticity  of  physical  health  that 
successfully  resisted  disease.  That  year  she 
was  prostrated  by  an  attack  of  pneumonia. 
We  almost  lost  her  and  I  have  felt  sure  in 
thinking  of  it  that  humanly  speaking  what 
kept  her  alive  was  her  strong  desire  to  live 
with  and  for  her  fatherless  children.  One 
morning  it  seemed  that  the  end  had  come. 
She  had  almost  crossed  the  boundary  between 
this  world  and  the  next.  Our  beloved  min 
ister  was  there,  the  late  honoured  Reverend 
John  D.  Wells,  so  long  President  of  the  Pres 
byterian  Board  of  Foreign  Missions,  and  our 
family  physician,  watch  in  hand,  noted  the 


MY  MOTHER  49 

failing  breath.  But  the  minutes  passed  and 
she  did  not  die.  Little  by  little  she  came 
back  to  us,  and  with  a  thrill  of  relief  that  no 
words  can  interpret  we  heard  that  our  mother 
would  live.  The  Psalmist  said,  "  With 
long  life  will  I  satisfy  him,  and  show  him 
my  salvation,"  and  we  had  only  to  change 
the  pronoun  for  the  text  to  fit  her.  She 
was  with  us  nearly  twenty-five  useful  years 
from  the  time  of  this  illness,  although  she 
was  never  again  entirely  free  from  the 
burdens  of  an  invalid's  life.  When  I  think 
of  her  I  understand  what  is  meant  by  the 
phrase  "  unspotted  from  the  world."  She 
was  the  most  other-worldly  person  I  ever 
knew,  my  dear  little  mother.  Her  standards 
were  of  the  highest,  her  nature  was  keyed  to 
an  inflexible  rectitude  :  she  not  only  had  no 
tinge  of  evil  in  her  thoughts  or  words,  but 
evil  recoiled  from  her,  so  outshining  was  her 
purity. 

In  the  sweetness  of  her  welcome  to  friends 
there  was  complete  freedom  from  something 
that  has  gradually  crept  into  much  of  our 
social  intercourse.  People  came  and  went 
beneath  our  roof,  as  suited  their  convenience, 
rather  than  ours.  The  hostess  was  never  dis 
turbed  by  unexpected  visitors  and  we  often 


50  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

had  friends  with  us  who  came  because  it 
pleased  them  to  do  so,  and  remained  not 
days,  but  weeks  and  months  at  a  time. 

My  father,  in  his  expansive  cordiality,  often 
gave  rather  thoughtless  invitations  to  people 
whom  he  casually  met  and  liked  when  he 
was  away  from  home.  Once  we  were  in  the 
midst  of  the  May  house-cleaning,  a  radical  and 
thorough  proceeding.  There  had  been  paint 
ing  and  paper-hanging,  scrubbing  and  scour 
ing  and  I  know  not  what  else.  Order  was 
beginning  to  loom  up  on  the  horizon,  but 
had  by  no  means  asserted  itself  when,  with 
out  previous  notification,  a  carriage  drove  to 
the  door  from  which  emerged,  with  carpet 
bags  and  other  paraphernalia,  a  family  of 
seven,  father,  mother  and  children  inclusive. 
They  explained  to  my  astonished  mother 
who  at  once  remembered  the  name,  that  they 
were  the  P's  from  Providence,  and  that  my 
father  had  asked  them  to  spend  what  we 
now  call  a  week's-end  at  his  home  on  their 
way  to  the  West.  Where  they  were  to  be  put 
up  and  how  accommodated  in  the  chaotic 
state  of  affairs  would  have  puzzled  any  one, 
except  the  mistress  of  the  home.  But  they 
were  speedily  made  to  feel  at  ease,  and 
nothing  that  occurred  during  their  stay 


MY  MOTHER  51 

obliged    them  to   regret   their  inopportune 
arrival. 

It  often  seems  a  little  odd  to  me  that  my 
mother  had  patience  with  a  daughter  so 
unlike  her  as  her  eldest  born.  She  had  an 
orderly  mind  and  kept  all  her  belongings  in 
the  nicest  array.  She  never  suffered  one 
day's  work,  if  she  could  by  any  chance  help 
it,  to  lap  over  on  the  space  of  another.  She 
had  been  trained  in  the  womanly  ways  of 
the  early  nineteenth  century,  and  she  found 
herself  confronted  with  insuperable  obstacles 
by  the  time  she  had  an  elder  daughter  to 
train.  My  sister  consoled  her  in  a  meas 
ure  for  me,  for  sewing  and  household  tasks 
were  to  me  very  nearly  as  difficult  as  arith 
metic  and  algebra.  The  wise  mother  won 
me  to  my  needle  by  letting  hemming  and 
over-handing  go  and  giving  me  canvas  and 
bright  coloured  wools  with  which  I  wrought 
samplers  that  were  her  pride.  They  are  my 
pride  as  I  survey  them  now,  for  in  all  the 
years  that  have  flitted  since  I  bent  above 
their  frames  I  have  never  taken  so  many 
stitches.  Her  time  was  before  that  of  ready 
made  garments,  and  she  never  took  kindly 
to  the  sewing-machine.  I  fear  I  shall  lose 
caste  with  some  of  my  readers  if  I  admit  that 


52  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

I  have  seldom  disdained  a  pin  as  a  friend  in 
need.  Not  so,  my  mother.  Pins  to  her 
were  the  resort  of  the  inefficient,  and  with 
inefficiency  she  had  nothing  to  do. 

Little  scenes  and  incidents  arise  in  memory 
when  one  reverts  to  the  past.  Once  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  discussion  in  the  family 
as  to  an  overcharge  of  postage  on  certain 
letters.  In  the  forties  the  postal  rates 
were  larger  than  they  have  been  since,  and 
quite  a  breeze  arose  around  the  table  when 
my  mother  declared  that  she  intended  to 
write  to  the  postmaster-general  and  ask  that 
a  certain  reform  should  be  introduced. 
Every  one  laughed  at  her,  and  every  one  de 
clared  that  her  letter  would  receive  no  atten 
tion.  Nevertheless,  she  wrote  and  sent  her 
remonstrance  and  in  due  time  received  a 
courtly  and  elegant  missive  from  the  man  at 
the  head  of  the  department.  Whatever  the 
contents  were  they  gave  the  daring  corre 
spondent  in  the  New  Jersey  home  a  transi 
tory  triumph  over  her  family  and  neighbours. 

Another  time,  coming  in  from  the  street 
in  the  late  afternoon  the  little  lady  of  the 
house  met  a  grenadier  of  a  woman  descending 
the  stairs  on  her  way  out.  The  woman  was  a 
stranger  who  bore  every  mark  of  a  suspicious 


MY  MOTHER  53 

character,  and  she  carried  in  her  hand  a 
satchel.  Nothing  daunted,  my  mother  ques 
tioned  the  intruder,  and  divining  that  she 
was  a  thief  requested  her  to  open  her  bag  and 
show  what  was  inside.  Immediately  awed 
by  the  dignity  of  the  little  personage  before 
her,  the  tall  woman,  who  could  easily  have 
brushed  past  my  mother  into  the  street, 
obeyed  the  command  and  showed  silver  and 
jewelry  that  she  had  gathered  up  in  different 
rooms  of  the  house.  We  were  not  a  little 
amazed  when  my  mother  said,  "  I  told  the 
poor  thing  that  if  she  kept  on  in  work  like 
this  she  would  find  herself  before  very  long 
in  the  penitentiary.  I  told  her,  too,  that 
she  would  better  put  her  wits  to  doing  some 
thing  honest,  and  warned  her  not  to  offend 
God  by  breaking  the  eighth  command 
ment." 

The  absolute  fearlessness  of  a  naturally 
timid  nature  when  sure  that  the  right  is  on 
its  side  was  more  than  once  displayed  by  this 
dear  woman  who  never  flinched  in  the  pres 
ence  of  peril.  She  would  go  with  entire 
bravery,  if  need  were,  into  a  home  invaded 
by  contagious  disease,  and  while  taking  every 
necessary  precaution  she  would  not  have 
understood  the  cowardice  we  too  often  dis- 


54  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

play  now  that  we  know  so  much  about 
malefic  germs  and  evil  bacteria. 

I  have  spoken  of  her  marvellous  intuition 
concerning  the  unseen  world  around  us. 
Twice  in  her  life  I  recall  an  incident  that 
bordered  on  the  supernatural.  It  was  in  a 
time  of  great  stress  and  sorrow  that  she  one 
evening  in  the  twilight  lay  down  for  a  mo 
ment  to  rest  in  her  chamber.  Her  life  was 
in  its  first  solitude  after  my  father's  death, 
and  many  grave  considerations  as  to  the 
future  were  pressing  upon  her  mind. 

She  always  declared  that  she  had  not  fal 
len  asleep  even  for  an  instant,  when  sud 
denly  the  darkening  room  was  filled  with  a 
soft,  diaphanous,  golden  light  that  dispersed 
the  shadows  and  made  a  tender  atmosphere 
around  her.  As  she  looked  up  wondering, 
out  of  this  light  grew  a  lovely  angelic  face, 
and  wings  were  outspread  above  her  bed. 
Then  a  voice  said  audibly,  "  Be  not  faithless 
but  believing."  The  vision  faded  as  gently 
as  it  had  come,  and  the  wear}7  spirit  was 
strengthened  and  calmed. 

Were  I  an  artist  drawing  portraits  of  this 
mother  of  mine,  one  picture  would  represent 
her  in  the  radiance  of  that  girlhood  which 
only  my  imagination  could  divine.  Another 


MY  MOTHER  55 

would  show  her  in  the  beautiful  rounded  ma 
turity  of  her  early  middle  age.  She  comes  to 
me  now  in  my  dreams,  straight,  slender,  lovely 
and  full  of  health  and  courage.  Another 
picture  is  in  my  mind  as  I  write.  It  is  of  the 
later  years  when  she  walked  softly,  when  she 
often  spent  days  in  her  room,  when  her  dress 
was  always  either  gray  or  black,  and  when 
no  one  saw  her  without  a  soft  white  shawl 
thrown  over  her  shoulders.  To  the  very 
last,  her  presence  in  our  home  was  benignant. 
Young  girls  would  run  in  to  see  her  and 
spend  a  few  moments  sitting  at  her  feet. 
Her  friends  loved  to  come  to  her  when  she 
could  not  go  to  them.  No  one  entered  her 
room  or  left  it  without  the  feeling  of  a  bene 
diction. 

Just  four  weeks  before  her  home-going  she 
said  to  me  one  morning,  "  I  have  something 
to  tell  you.  Last  night  in  my  dreams  I  saw 
Belle.  (My  sister.)  She  said,  '  Mother,  you 
have  missed  me  very  much  in  the  year  that 
I  have  been  gone,  but  do  not  grieve  any  more. 
I  am  coming  for  you  in  just  a  month.'  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you  how  beautiful  and 
young  your  sister  looked  and  how  wonderful 
the  place  was  in  which  she  was  standing." 

Neither  my  mother  nor  I  thought  of  this 


56  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

vision  as  a  prophecy,  yet  precisely  four  weeks 
from  the  date  of  this  dream  she  left  us  to  join 
those  who  were  in  heaven,  the  last  to  go  be 
fore  her  having  been  the  sister  who  spoke  to 
her  in  a  dream  full  of  comfort  and  sweetness. 


COMMON  DAYS  AND  GALA  DAYS 

EVERY  morning  there  passes  my  sub 
urban  home  a  procession  of  children 
on  their  way  to  school.  They  go 
merrily  onward,  these  dear  little  people,  who 
have  no  burdens  and  no  anxieties,  whose 
lives  are  even  cheerier  and  freer  than  those 
of  the  birds  in  the  trees.  Little  boys  and 
little  girls,  lads  and  lasses  in  the  high  school, 
I  watch  them  with  a  feeling  of  love  and  an 
intensity  of  hope.  Here  are  the  men  and 
women  of  the  future.  The  spectator  at  the 
side  of  the  road  watches  the  army  as  it 
marches  by,  listens  to  the  band  that  plays 
in  front,  sees  the  banners  waving  in  the  sun, 
and  although  merely  a  spectator  shares  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  advancing  column. 

The  little  men  and  women  of  to-day  have 
come  to  their  kingdom  in  a  period  pregnant 
with  great  issues.  One  who  is  almost  in 
sight  of  the  Inn  at  Journey's-end  is  fain  to 
wish  that  from  another  sphere  it  may  be 

57 


58  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

possible  to  follow  the  miracles  of  these 
earthly  days,  as  one  by  one  they  speed  upon 
each  other  in  the  developments  of  the  pres 
ent  century.  Our  immediate  ancestors  and 
the  mighty  generations  who  preceded  them 
could  not  in  their  wildest  dreams  have  im 
agined  the  ease  with  which  the  forces  of 
nature  are  made  to  serve  us  in  this  wonder 
ful  present  time.  We  sit  without  a  fear  in 
underground  railroads  that  tunnel  the  earth 
beneath  rushing  rivers ;  we  raise  our  build 
ings  to  mountain  height  and  are  carried  sky 
wards  on  lifts  that  ply  up  and  down  all  day 
long ;  our  elevated  trains  glide  swiftly  over 
our  heads  in  the  air  and  we  sit  at  our  desks 
and  converse  with  friends  across  the  conti 
nent.  When  two  great  steamships  collide  in 
the  mist  the  marvel  of  wireless  telegraphy 
sends  upward  a  cabalistic  call  for  help,  and 
straightway  that  call  is  heard  by  ships  on 
the  sea  and  ships  stationed  on  the  coast,  and 
without  delay  these  hasten  to  the  rescue. 
Messages  have  been  sent  by  wireless  telegra 
phy  from  railway  trains  in  motion.  To  the 
children  of  the  hour  not  one  of  these  won 
ders  appears  extraordinary,  and  as  they  grow 
older  all  these  and  many  other  marvels  will 
be  in  the  day's  work. 


COMMON  DAYS  AND  GALA  DAYS   59 

The  children  are  going  to  school,  and  I 
love  them,  and  love,  too,  to  notice  as  she 
trips  along  beside  them,  the  little  school- 
ma'am  who  is  herself  part  of  the  advance 
guard  of  civilization.  She  it  is  who  is  shap 
ing  the  future  of  the  children  in  her  care, 
children  who  really  pass  more  hours  of  day 
light  under  her  hand  than  they  do  in  the 
companionship  of  their  parents. 

Let  no  one  fancy  that  in  everything  the 
children  of  to-day  have  superior  advantages 
or  enjoy  greater  opportunities  than  belonged 
to  those  who  went  before  them.  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  the  elaborate  machinery  of 
the  twentieth  century  schoolroom  surpasses 
the  simpler  methods  of  fifty  years  ago  in 
matters  essential  to  real  culture,  and  I  am 
decidedly  of  the  opinion  that  home  and 
school  in  America  at  least  are  just  now 
united  in  the  perilous  business  of  hurrying 
children  too  rapidly  through  childhood. 
The  teacher,  wherever  we  find  her,  is  the 
guardian  angel  of  the  children.  Women  are 
so  largely  in  the  majority  in  the  teaching 
profession,  especially  in  the  elementary  years, 
that  I  use  the  feminine  pronoun  with  inten 
tion.  Teaching  is  an  ill-paid  profession  and 
it  exacts  a  large  toll  of  strength  of  body  and 


60  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

mind  from  those  who  devote  their  lives  to  its 
service.  There  are  towns  and  villages  in  this 
land  in  which  the  community  owes  a  debt  it 
can  never  hope  to  pay,  to  the  generosity, 
wisdom  and  self-sacrifice  of  the  teachers  in 
private  and  public  schools. 

When  I  began  this  chapter  I  asked  myself 
what  external  feature  marked  the  difference 
between  the  children  of  my  day  and  the 
children  who  passed  my  door  this  morning. 
It  is  hard  for  these  little  folk  to  realize  that 
their  grandmothers  were  once  like  them 
selves,  and  were  as  eager  to  reach  the  school 
room  by  nine  o'clock  and  be  in  their  places 
in  season,  as  they  can  possibly  be.  We  were 
provided  with  bags  in  which  to  carry  our 
books,  and  I  notice  that  most  of  my  little 
friends  carry  theirs  in  their  hands.  We 
wore  hats  summer  and  winter.  Until  the 
snow  flies  and  the  thermometer  registers 
zero,  the  little  maids  of  New  Jersey  prefer  to 
leave  their  hats  at  home  and  skip  along  bare 
headed.  But  the  chief  point  of  difference  in 
dress  may  be  indicated  in  a  single  word. 
These  children  do  not  wear  aprons.  We  did. 

Aprons  indeed  formed  an  important  part 
of  the  outfit  of  a  well-dressed  child  in  the 
forties.  They  were  made  in  various  styles, 


COMMON  DAYS  AND  GALA  DAYS   61 

sometimes  with  suspenders  pinned  on  the 
shoulder  and  revealing  the  waist  of  the  dress, 
sometimes  with  three-cornered  bibs  and  wide 
strings  tied  in  a  bow  behind,  and  often  with 
full  skirt  gathered  into  a  yoke,  and  full 
sleeves  terminating  in  a  band  at  the  wrist. 
This  latter  fashion  was  peculiarly  pretty  and 
useful,  as  an  apron  of  this  pattern  was  a  com 
plete  covering  and  any  sort  of  dress  might  be 
worn  beneath  it.  Girls  of  eleven  and  twelve 
often  had  for  dress  occasions  aprons  of  black 
silk,  ruffled,  embroidered  or  braided.  For 
every-day  wear  a  mother  who  wished  to  save 
washing  and  ironing  might  put  an  apron  of 
black  alpaca  on  her  little  daughter,  but  as  a 
rule,  aprons  that  could  be  tubbed  at  discre 
tion  were  preferred. 

The  broad  hair  ribbons  that  children  are 
wearing  now  were  then  reserved  for  sashes  to 
ornament  white  frocks  and  finish  a  child's 
toilette  when  the  child  was  dressed  for  a 
function.  Narrow  hair  ribbons  were  worn 
by  girls  who  had  long  braids,  but  many  wore 
their  hair  short  for  the  first  dozen  years, 
turning  it  back  from  the  face  with  a  round, 
rubber  comb.  In  summer  then  as  now  it 
was  necessary  for  little  girls  to  have  changes 
enough  to  keep  them  comfortable  and  dainty, 


62  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

but  in  winter  most  of  us  were  considered 
thoroughly  equipped  for  all  occasions  if  we 
had  a  best  frock  for  Sundays  and  an  every 
day  one  to  be  worn  through  the  week. 
Sometimes  last  winter's  best  frock  was  let 
down  to  suit  the  growing  child,  and  she  had 
it  for  second-best  while  her  dark-stuff  frock 
under  the  apron  fully  fitted  her  for  school. 
Children  at  school  wore  thick  shoes  in 
winter  with  woolen  stockings,  and  in  sum 
mer  their  stockings  were  white  and  they 
were  often  seen  with  slippers.  Young  girls, 
and  for  that  matter,  girls  who  had  finished 
school  and  were  in  society,  were  frequently 
shod  with  thin-soled  shoes.  I  remember 
hearing  a  man  of  some  elegance,  who  was  ap 
parently  a  dictator  of  fashion  in  his  circle, 
remark  with  emphasis  that  no  refined  gentle 
woman  would  wear  a  thick-soled  shoe.  In 
Jane  Austen's  day  and  in  that  of  Charlotte 
Bronte  young  girls  evidently  suffered  from 
this  folly,  for  we  find  Jane  Bennet  in  "  Pride 
and  Prejudice"  prostrated  by  cold  and  fever 
as  a  result  of  a  walk  in  the  rain  in  which  her 
feet  were  soaked.  In  "  Shirley  "  on  the  night 
that  the  Mill  takes  fire  a  picturesque  scene 
that  all  readers  of  that  novel  must  recall, 
two  young  girls,  in  shoes  with  paper  soles, 


and  thin  frocks  that  catch  on  the  briars  as 
they  haste  along,  run  across  the  stubble  fields 
from  the  vicarage  to  the  hollow  where  the 
mill  stands.  No  doubt  one  of  the  reasons 
why  consumption  used  to  be  so  deadly  a 
scourge  may  have  been  found  in  the  lack  of 
proper  care  in  protecting  the  feet,  when 
young  people  were  out-of-doors. 

I  have  never  at  any  time  in  my  life  felt  so 
entirely  well  dressed,  nor  looked  at  myself  in 
the  glass  with  so  proud  an  air  of  satisfaction 
as  when  at  the  age  of  eleven  I  had  a  frock  of 
red  calico  and  a  white  apron  daintily  ruffled. 
The  apron  had  pockets,  the  dress  was  cut 
round  in  the  neck  and  had  sleeves  ending  at 
the  elbow.  The  girls  in  our  school  were 
similarly  arrayed  that  summer  in  dresses  of 
bright  red,  and  the  schoolroom  must  have 
resembled  a  bed  of  poppies.  Mothers  little 
understand  the  depth  of  happiness,  the  pro 
found  pleasure  that  children  feel  when 
they  are  dressed  as  others  are  and  are  sure 
that  they  have  on  precisely  the  right  cos 
tume.  The  little  heroine  of  "  Anne  of  Green 
Gables  "  affirmed  a  self-evident  truth  when 
she  said  that  people  would  rather  be  absurd 
in  company  than  sensible  all  alone.  Usually 
it  costs  no  more  in  pains  and  money  to  dress 


64  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

a  child  as  her  mates  are  dressed  than  to 
make  her  conspicuous  in  some  other  way. 

While  other  portions  of  childish  dress  were 
simple,  hats  were  more  or  less  fanciful  as  the 
little  grandmothers  wore  them.  They  were 
trimmed  with  feathers  and  flowers  and  bows 
of  bright  ribbon,  and  were  of  every  variety 
of  shape  from  the  piquant  gipsey  to  the  pic 
turesque  drooping  broad-brim,  or  the  severer 
sailor  hat. 

Once  when  just  beyond  my  twelfth  birth 
day  I  went  to  visit  a  Welsh  friend  whose 
daughters  were  my  schoolmates,  I  wore  a 
hat  of  tine  white  chip  trimmed  with  black 
velvet  and  pink  roses.  One  evening  we  were 
all  going  to  hear  a  lecture  by  a  distinguished 
man,  and  rain  came  down  in  torrents  at  the 
moment  of  starting.  To  go  in  my  pretty  hat 
was  not  to  be  thought  of,  and  neither  was  it 
possible  that  I  should  be  seen  in  the  audience 
with  uncovered  head,  that  fashion  having 
not  yet  made  its  way  into  existence.  The 
question  was  speedily  settled  for  me  by  my 
hostess  whose  own  daughters  had  contentedly 
and  quickly  dressed  themselves  in  their  old 
est  garments.  She  brought  out  a  faded  cloak 
that  was  kept  for  rainy  days  and  a  fearful 
and  wonderful  bonnet  of  her  own,  a  bonnet 


COMMON  DAYS  AND  GALA  DAYS   65 

of  blue  silk  with  garniture  of  yellow  flowers. 
Year  in  and  year  out  it  had  seen  service,  and 
the  countryside  knew  it  well.  "  What  will 
people  say  when  they  see  me  in  this  mas 
querade?"  I  exclaimed  as  the  lady  fastened 
her  bonnet  under  my  chin.  "  Unless  you 
think  about  yourself,  nobody  will  think 
about  you,"  was  her  reply ;  "  and  why  should 
you  give  up  a  pleasure  that  you  will  remem 
ber,  when  you  can  enjoy  it  to  the  full  in  a 
uniform  like  this  ?  " 

With  the  invention  of  the  sewing-machine 
feminine  clothing  became  constantly  more 
elaborate.  Tucks  and  ruffles  could  be  mul 
tiplied  to  an  unlimited  extent  when  the 
work  was  done,  not  by  hand  but  by  ma 
chinery.  Thoughtful  people  objected  to  the 
introduction  of  this  useful  machine  into  the 
domain  of  household  sewing,  fearing  that 
it  would  take  the  bread  away  from  women 
who  had  no  other  resource,  but  the  seam 
stress  and  the  dressmaker,  as  well  as  the 
house-mother,  soon  found  the  sewing-ma 
chine  indispensable,  and  instead  of  less 
ening  their  wage  it  increased  its  average 
rate. 

Another  reminiscence  of  the  dear  Welsh 
lady  drifts  into  memory  from  the  past.  She 


66  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

had  a  creative  and  inventive  mind,  and  be 
fore  golf  capes  came  into  general  use  she 
made  something  very  like  them  for  her 
daughters.  She  argued  that  the  plaid  shawls 
of  fine  wool  that  were  common  then  were 
always  slipping  off,  and  in  her  view  were  too 
old  to  be  worn  by  children  and  young  girls, 
so,  taking  her  shears  and  fastening  a  pattern 
on  the  shawls,  she  proceeded  to  cut  out  cir 
cular  capes  to  which  she  attached  hoods, 
and  these,  preferably  of  gay  colours,  were 
worn  by  her  girls  and  were  warm  and  com 
fortable.  They  were  wadded  and  lined,  and 
the  daughter  who  did  not  care  what  she  had 
on,  if  only  it  pleased  her  mother,  went  smil 
ingly  to  school  thus  arrayed,  while  the  other 
who  had  ideas  of  her  own  and  wished  to  be 
in  the  fashion  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  during 
cold  weather.  The  good  mother  had  no  real 
ization  of  the  pangs  her  Nelly  suffered,  for 
the  child  said  little  to  her,  comprehending 
that  under  the  old  regime  nothing  that  she 
said  would  avail  to  change  the  situation. 

There  has  been  a  swing  of  the  pendulum 
since  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  it  may 
be  that  it  has  swung  too  far,  but  is  it  not 
better  that  children  in  a  world,  where  sooner 
or  later  they  must  find  much  that  is  trouble- 


COMMON  DAYS  AND  GALA  DAYS      67 

some,  shall  have  very  few  trials  in  a  matter 
so  insignificant  as  what  they  shall  wear? 

Two  pageants  of  yesterday  rise  before  me 
as  I  write.  One  is  that  of  a  May-queen  pro 
cession  in  which  a  long  column  of  children 
marches  two  by  two,  the  girls  heading  the 
line,  the  boys  bringing  up  the  rear.  In  front 
of  the  procession  is  carried  a  banner,  and  just 
behind  it  a  little  band  of  girls  bear  in  their 
midst  a  large  flat  basket  in  which  lies  a 
beautiful  wreath  of  roses.  This  is  the  crown 
that  is  to  be  placed  on  the  head  of  the  queen 
when  the  vernal  wood  is  reached  where  the 
fete  is  to  take  place.  Here  there  is  a  May 
pole  around  which  the  children  will  dance. 
The  girls  are  all  in  white,  and  the  boys  have 
white  trousers  and  blue  jackets  with  brass 
buttons.  The  little  girl  who  has  been  chosen 
queen  for  the  day  is  the  one  her  schoolmates 
most  love,  and  has  been  chosen  not  because 
she  is  the  most  beautiful  or  the  most  clever, 
or  the  best  in  her  studies,  but  simply  because 
her  sweet,  unselfish  goodness  has  made  her 
the  idol  of  their  hearts. 

The  May-queen  procession  could  not  al 
ways  take  place  on  the  first  of  May,  but 
skies  grew  clear  and  blue  and  the  blossoms 
came  out  on  the  trees  and  the  world  put  on 


68  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

its  gala  dress  some  time  during  the  month, 
and  then  we  had  our  May-day  fete.  All  day 
long  we  would  have  a  good  time  under  the 
open  sky,  going  home  at  evening-tide  after 
our  picnic  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction  in 
which  there  was  no  flaw. 

By  the  time  that  I  was  twelve  I  wrote  the 
songs  for  the  May-day  picnic,  and  more  than 
once  had  the  pleasure  of  arranging  the  en 
tire  procession,  inclusive  of  fairies,  trolls  and 
elves ;  at  least,  different  children  took  these 
parts,  and  though  to  grown-up  spectators 
there  may  have  been  little  difference  in  their 
dress  from  that  worn  by  the  others,  each  set 
of  children  had  a  badge  revealing  to  the  in 
itiated  just  what  part  they  were  to  take. 

A  yet  more  brilliant  fete  of  the  year, 
longed  for  by  children  and  enjoyed  to  the 
full,  was  the  Fourth  of  July.  To  us  it  was 
a  glorious  day.  We  hailed  it  with  enthusi 
asm,  the  town  itself  bloomed  out  in  gala 
dress  and  celebrated  the  nation's  independ 
ence,  every  private  house  showing  its  flag 
and  every  church  and  public  building 
being  lavishly  decorated  with  bunting.  The 
feature  of  the  morning  was  a  military 
parade,  the  soldiers  marching  to  the  town 
hall.  Then  came  troups  of  children,  the 


COMMON  DAYS  AND  GALA  DAYS   69 

girls  dressed  in  white  with  sashes  of  red  and 
blue,  while  the  boys  wore  pinned  on  their 
jackets  a  little  American  flag.  Children  and 
soldiers  vied  with  each  other  in  celebrating 
the  nation's  greatest  day. 

On  the  platform,  clergymen,  judges  and 
men  of  distinction  sat  in  impressive  array,  the 
governor  of  the  state  or  some  other  promi 
nent  official  frequently  being  present.  The 
orator  of  the  day  came  forward  and  made  a 
ringing  address.  Then  some  one  read  with 
emphasis  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
and  patriotic  songs  were  sung,  and  every  one 
went  home  inspired  with  pride  in  the  country 
and  thankful  to  belong  to  the  free  Republic. 
Of  course  we  had  fireworks  in  the  evening, 
cannonading  during  the  day,  and  all  day 
long  the  usual  number  of  small  explosives, 
but  there  was  a  marked  absence,  I  fancy,  on 
the  part  of  grown  people,  of  the  dislike  so 
often  expressed  to  a  rollicking  Fourth  of 
July.  Old  and  young  enjoyed  Independ 
ence  Day,  and  celebrated  it  in  the  good  old- 
fashioned  way  when  I  was  a  child. 


VI 

THE  HOME  LIBRARY 

AS  a  little  apple-cheeked  maid  I  at 
tended  school  more  or  less  regularly 
after  my  eighth  year,  although  I  did 
not  settle  down  to  school  work  with  much 
seriousness  until  1848.  Was  it  really  true,  I 
wonder,  that  the  winters  were  longer  and 
colder  and  the  snow  deeper  then  than  now  ? 
I  can  see  myself  well  bundled  up,  walking 
to  school  between  snow  walls  on  either  side 
the  road,  and  having  jolly  times  when  a 
gallant  neighbour-boy  drew  me  there  on  his 
sled.  There  were  two  or  three  of  these  neigh 
bour-boys  who  were  very  good  to  the  little 
girls,  and  if  they  are  still  living  on  the  earth 
I  hope  the  world  has  prospered  with  them. 
One  of  the  most  devoted  in  his  attentions 
used  to  bring  me  little  offerings  of  pepper 
mint  sticks  and  licorice.  I  met  him  years 
after  our  childhood  when  in  the  glory  of  my 
first  trained  dress  I  was  attending  a  wedding. 
He,  too,  happened  to  be  a  wedding  guest,  and 
when  presented  to  me  remarked  that  we  had 

70 


THE  HOME  LIBRARY  71 

met  before.  We  had  a  pleasant  little  talk 
over  old  times  and  then  our  ways  parted 
never  to  cross  again. 

Another  lad  sent  me  my  first  valentine, 
and  occasionally  assisted  me  through  the 
puzzle  of  boundary  lines,  and  sums  in  long 
division.  My  earliest  education  admitted 
much  healthful  comradeship  with  the  boys 
who  attended  the  same  school.  We  all 
played  and  worked  together,  boys  and  girls, 
and  the  intercourse  was  as  it  should  be,  on 
the  plane  of  children  in  the  same  family. 
The  people  in  the  community  were  mostly 
of  the  comfortable  middle  class  who  possess 
neither  poverty  nor  riches,  but  live  quiet, 
self-respecting  lives,  taking  the  days  as  they 
come,  performing  duties  simply  and  exchang 
ing  friendly  courtesies  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Our  household  was  like  that  of  others  in  the 
same  town.  We  possibly  had  more  books  than 
most  of  our  neighbours.  A  few  ancient  vol 
umes  had  come  to  us  from  the  past,  dating 
back  to  the  sixteenth  century,  one  or  two  of 
them  rudely  printed.  There  were  still  other 
old  volumes  of  a  later  date,  among  them  one 
which  interested  me  as  it  contained  a  num 
ber  of  sermons  preached  in  England  soon 
after  the  execution  of  Charles  the  First. 


72  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Even  as  a  little  thing  under  ten  I  read  books 
of  a  homiletic  turn,  and  having  made  up  my 
email  mind  at  that  period  that  Charles  the 
First  was  a  martyr  I  perused  these  sermons, 
though  they  were  beyond  my  comprehension, 
with  laborious  zeal.  The  fact  that  many  of 
the  preachers  approved  the  deed  only  excited 
my  ire.  This  volume  and  a  number  of  oth 
ers  had  originally  belonged  to  a  great  uncle 
of  my  mother,  who  had  for  forty  years  minis 
tered  to  one  congregation  in  Scotland.  We 
had  a  bound  volume  of  his  sermons  in  manu 
script,  but  I  venture  the  remark  that  none  of 
us  ever  succeeded  in  reading  one  of  them. 
They  were  closely  written  in  a  small  some 
what  cramped  hand,  and  contained  the  ortho 
dox  number  of  divisions  and  heads. 

Apart  from  the  quaint  old  books  men 
tioned,  there  were  others  historical  and 
polemical,  and  as  there  were  comparatively 
few  juveniles  to  attract  attention,  I  pored 
indiscriminately  over  Rollings  Ancient  His 
tory,  Plutarch's  Lives  and  Hume's  History  of 
England.  A  great  delight  cast  its  radiant 
glow  over  my  horizon  when  on  a  certain 
birthday  a  number  of  charming  small  books 
bound  in  red  found  their  way  into  the  house. 
They  included  the  lives  of  many  celebrated 


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persons, — kings,  queens,  emperors  and  com 
manders  on  land  and  sea,  and  were 
written  by  one  of  the  Abbotts,  probably 
John  S.  C.  The  same  author  wrote  a  Life 
of  Napoleon  that  I  eagerly  devoured,  fol 
lowing  it  soon  after  by  an  enthusiastic  study 
of  "  Napoleon  and  His  Marshalls,"  by  J.  T. 
Headley.  "  The  Rollo  Books,"  by  Jacob  Ab 
bott,  reached  me  too  late  for  my  enjoyment 
since  at  eleven  I  found  them  too  juvenile. 
About  this  time  I  made  acquaintance  with 
Cowper's  "Task,"  Thomson's  "Seasons," 
"  Marmion  "  and  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake." 
Of  Sir  Walter's  prose  I  remember  reading 
"  Ivanhoe,"  but  others  of  his  novels  I  did  not 
read  for  some  years. 

My  favourite  writer  of  romances  at  this 
period  was  a  woman  whom  the  young  peo 
ple  of  the  twentieth  century  would  probably 
regard  as  tedious.  Mrs.  Sherwood  was  a 
young  English  lady  who  went  to  India  as 
the  wife  of  a  man  in  the  English  Civil  Serv 
ice.  There  she  entered  into  the  most  exclu 
sive  British  society,  but  did  not  give  herself 
over  to  a  whirl  of  gaiety.  She  was  deeply 
religious,  and  was  a  friend  of  the  sainted 
Henry  Marty n.  Her  stories  were  highly 
evangelical,  and  frequently  built  around  the 


74  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

church  catechism.  I  cannot  imagine  little 
girls  of  to-day,  unless,  fortunately  for  them 
selves,  they  are  sufferers  from  a  sort  of  book 
famine,  as  caring  much  for  Mrs.  Sherwood's 
tales,  but  to  me  "  The  Fairchild  Family,"  for 
example,  had  an  engaging  charm,  the 
memory  of  which  lingers  with  me  like  a  per 
fume. 

One  of  our  neighbours  was  the  pastor  of  a 
Congregational  church  in  the  vicinity,  and 
his  young  wife  and  I  were  great  friends.  I 
had  free  access  to  the  ministerial  library,  a 
small  collection  of  well  chosen  books,  and 
often  when  the  minister  was  out  making 
calls  on  parishioners,  I  was  permitted  to 
have  the  study  to  myself,  and  there  I  would 
read  until  the  darkness  gathered  and  the 
book  had  to  be  laid  aside. 

I  was  a  sentimental  child  and  I  used  to 
touch  with  a  certain  reverence  a  few  beauti 
fully  bound  volumes  that  had  been  love  of 
ferings  of  these  two  happy  people  to  one  an 
other  in  their  days  of  courtship.  These  were 
on  a  shelf  by  themselves,  and  below  them  on 
another  were  books  inscribed  in  a  strong 

hand,  "  To  my  dear  wife,  Adeline ." 

People  know  very  little  of  the  dreams  and 
fancies  that  flit  through  the  brains  of  the 


THE  HOME  LIBRARY  75 

smaller  folk  around  them,  and  nobody 
thought  for  an  instant  that  a  demure  little 
girl  was  making  the  grave  young  minister  her 
ideal,  and  hoping  that  one  day  some  one  pre 
cisely  like  him  might  make  such  gifts  to  her 
as  he  had  bestowed  upon  his  Adeline. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress  was  perennially  a 
satisfaction.  We  had  Bunyan's  amazing 
book  in  a  fine  old  edition  with  quaint  wood 
cuts.  I  read  the  story  over  and  over  and  al 
most  knew  by  heart  every  stage  in  Chris 
tian's  journey,  trembling  with  him  at  the 
thought  of  the  lion,  stepping  with  him  into 
the  House  of  the  Interpreter,  suffering  with 
him  in  the  clutches  of  Giant  Despair  and 
triumphing  with  him  at  the  end  of  his  jour 
ney.  I  must  linger  over  this  marvellous 
book  which  to  me  as  a  child  was  more  fasci 
nating  than  a  fairy  tale.  I  loved  especially 
one  scene  that  Christian  beheld  in  the  House 
of  the  Interpreter.  The  candles  had  been 
lighted  and  the  Pilgrim  was  receiving  cour 
teous  attention  from  his  grave  and  stately 
host  who  revealed  to  his  eyes  life  pageants 
for  his  future  profit.  One  of  these  was  the 
peculiarly  vivid  description  that  I  quote. 

"  I  saw  also,  that  the  Interpreter  took  him 
again  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  into  a  pleas- 


76  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

ant  place,  where  was  built  a  stately  palace, 
beautiful  to  behold  ;  at  the  sight  of  which 
Christian  was  greatly  delighted.  He  saw 
also  upon  the  top  thereof  certain  persons 
walking,  who  were  clothed  all  in  gold. 

"  Then  said  Christian,  May  we  go  in 
thither? 

"  Then  the  Interpreter  took  him,  and  led 
him  up  towards  the  door  of  the  palace ;  and 
behold,  at  the  door  stood  a  great  company  of 
men,  as  desirous  to  go  in,  but  durst  not. 
There  also  sat  a  man  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  door,  at  a  table-side,  with  a  book  and  his 
ink-horn  before  him,  to  take  the  names  of 
them  that  should  enter  therein  ;  he  saw  also 
that  in  the  doorway  stood  many  men  in  ar 
mour  to  keep  it,  being  resolved  to  do  to  the 
men  that  would  enter  what  hurt  and  mis 
chief  they  could.  Now  was  Christian  some 
what  in  amaze.  At  last,  when  every  man 
started  back  for  fear  of  the  armed  men, 
Christian  saw  a  man  of  a  very  stout  counte 
nance  come  up  to  the  man  that  sat  there  to 
write,  saying,  '  Set  down  my  name,  sir ; ' 
the  which  when  he  had  done,  he  saw  the 
man  draw  his  sword,  and  put  a  helmet  on 
his  head,  and  rush  towards  the  door  upon 
the  armed  men,  who  laid  upon  him  with 


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deadly  force ;  but  the  man,  not  at  all  dis 
couraged,  fell  to  cutting  and  hacking  most 
fiercely.  So  after  he  had  given  and  received 
many  wounds  to  those  that  attempted  to 
keep  him  out,  he  cut  his  way  through  them 
all,  and  pressed  forward  into  the  palace ;  at 
which  there  was  a  pleasant  voice  heard  from 
those  that  were  within,  even  of  those  that 
walk  upon  the  top  of  the  palace,  saying, 

"  l  Come  in,  come  in, 

Eternal  glory  thou  shalt  win.' 

So  he  went  in,  and  was  clothed  with  such 
garments  as  they.  Then  Christian  smiled, 
and  said,  I  think  verily  I  know  the  meaning 
of  this." 

Another  battle  scene  that  thrills  me  yet, 
one  that  I  understand  far  better  than  in 
the  days  of  childhood,  was  the  famous 
fight  between  Christian  and  Apollyon.  The 
illustration  represented  the  fiend  clad  in 
armour  and  opposing  Christian  fiercely 
and  terribly,  literally  barring  the  path 
over  which  Christian  must  tread  to  reach 
his  goal.  The  conversation  is  remarka 
ble  in  its  force  and  directness.  Regard 
ing  the  Pilgrim  with  a  disdainful  coun 
tenance,  Apollyon  demands  to  know  his 


78 

name  and  the  object  of  his  journey.  When 
told,  he  quickly  claims  Christian  as  his  sub 
ject,  and  promises  him  rewards  and  advan 
tages  on  condition  that  he  return  to  his  alle 
giance.  Thus  in  every  age  has  the  mighty 
adversary  of  souls  tried  to  win  them  to  him 
self.  Failing  to  disturb  Christian,  who 
frankly  tells  him  that  having  taken  service 
under  another  Prince  he  prefers  the  work 
and  the  wages  and  the  land  to  which  he  is 
going  and  everything  connected  with  his 
new  Master,  to  anything  Apollyon  could 
offer,  he  assails  him  with  fiery  darts,  he 
hurls  a  flaming  dart  at  Christian's  breast,  he 
sends  flying  about  him  a  perfect  hail-storm 
of  blows  and  burning  arrows,  some  of  which 
wound  the  Pilgrim  who  is  finally  borne  to 
the  ground,  his  sword  dropping  from  his 
hand.  One  held  her  breath  in  awe  and  ter 
ror  at  this  crisis  of  the  dreadful  conflict,  only 
to  flush  with  exultant  gladness  when  Chris 
tian  nimbly  reached  again  for  the  sword, 
and  summoning  all  his  strength,  gave  the 
fiend  a  final  deadly  thrust.  Christian's  con 
flict  with  Apollyon  lasted  more  than  half  a 
day.  How  many  of  ours  have  lasted  whole 
days  and  whole  weeks?  But  with  thanks  to 
the  Lord  of  the  way,  we  have  been  able  to 


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put  the  foe  to  flight,  crying,  "  Rejoice  not 
over  me,  O  mine  enemy.  Though  I  fall,  I 
shall  arise  again." 

We  had  very  few  novels  in  our  library 
and  those  on  its  shelves  were  old-fashioned 
romances.  There  used  to  be  on  the  part  of 
many  good  people  a  prejudice  against  fiction, 
and  where  this  had  become  firmly  estab 
lished  it  was  hard  to  uproot.  By  almost  im 
perceptible  degrees  as  the  children  grew 
older,  the  books  in  the  house  took  on  a 
lighter  character.  My  sister  and  I  were 
young  girls  when  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  ap 
peared,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it 
took  us  by  storm.  I  began  reading  it  on  a 
Saturday  afternoon  unfortunately  for  myself, 
and  at  a  late  bedtime  laid  it  reluctantly 
down.  To  finish  an  exciting  book  of  this 
kind  on  Sunday  was  a  thing  almost  impossi 
ble  considering  the  habits  and  convictions  of 
the  household  and  my  own  youthful  princi 
ples.  Nevertheless,  on  Sunday  afternoon  as 
the  book  lay  upon  the  bureau  in  my  room, 
I  could  not  resist  the  desire  to  peep  into  it 
and  read  just  a  little  more  about  little  Eva 
and  Uncle  Tom.  To  read  standing  did  not 
present  itself  as  quite  so  wrong  as  to  read 
comfortably  seated  in  a  chair.  I  do  not 


80  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

know  how  long  I  stood  beside  the  window 
absorbed  in  the  story,  but  I  do  know  that  I 
read  until  it  was  time  to  light  the  lamps. 

Among  the  stories  in  lighter  vein  that 
gradually  came  into  the  house  were  "The 
Wide,  Wide  World,"  "Queechy"  and  "Say 
and  Seal,"  by  Miss  Warner;  "The  Lamp 
lighter,"  by  an  author  I  cannot  recall,  and 
under  protest  from  older  friends  who  had 
themselves  read  the  book,  a  work  that  was 
attracting  a  great  deal  of  attention,  Char 
lotte  Bronte's  "Jane  Eyre."  In  view  of 
the  problem  novels  with  which  we  have 
grown  only  too  familiar  in  the  last  decade 
it  seems  singular  that  "  Jane  Eyre  "  should 
have  been  so  unsparingly  condemned  as  a 
dangerous  production  by  many  of  its  readers. 
Once  it  had  been  admitted  into  the  house  it 
acted  as  an  entering  wedge,  and  fiction  found 
the  right  of  way  and  hobnobbed  in  the  same 
room  with  Owen's  "  Fourfold  State "  and 
Baxter's  "Saint's  Rest." 

We  had  the  habit  of  reading  aloud  in  the 
evening  and  this  enabled  us  to  share  the 
pleasure  and  profit  of  our  books.  A  book 
that  is  enjoyed  by  the  whole  family  and  that 
provokes  discussion  is  educational  whatever 
its  subject  may  be.  By  the  time  Harper's 


THE  HOME  LIBRARY  81 

Magazine  became  a  monthly  visitor  we  read 
it  in  this  way,  often  beginning  at  the  first 
article  and  going  straight  through  the  maga 
zine  as  if  we  were  listeners  at  a  concert, 
taking  the  numbers  as  they  were  on  the 
programme. 

A  juvenile  magazine  that  was  a  prede 
cessor  of  the  Youth's  Companion,  St.  Nicholas 
and  other  favourites  of  children  was  called 
Robert  Merry's  Museum.  This  the  younger 
children  liked.  It  did  not  appeal  to  me  for 
my  taste  had  been  formed  by  literature  of  a 
different  order. 

When  we  first  made  acquaintance  with 
Charles  Dickens  we  were  introduced  to 
groups  of  men  and  women  who  seemed  to 
be  flesh  and  blood,  and  not  puppets  of  an 
author's  moving.  "  David  Copperfield  "  was 
the  first  of  this  magician's  books  to  take  hold 
of  my  heart  and  open  for  me  the  doors  into 
a  world  of  delight.  From  the  time  I  first 
read  Dickens  until  the  June  day  when  I 
heard  of  his  death  I  never  lost  an  opportu 
nity  of  reading  everything  that  he  wrote.  I 
heard  him  read  "  Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree 
Inn  "  during  his  last  visit  to  America.  He 
stepped  out  upon  the  platform,  a  trim,  jaunty 
figure  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  and 


82  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

when  he  began  to  read  with  his  pleasant 
voice  and  the  rising  inflection  at  the  end  of 
a  sentence,  he  completed  his  mastery  over 
one  of  his  loyal  admirers. 

There  are  those  who  criticise  Charles  Dick 
ens  because  of  his  fondness  for  depicting  low 
life,  but  in  "  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities "  and 
"  Little  Dorrit,"  if  nowhere  else,  he  showed 
himself  entirely  capable  of  describing  the 
thorough  gentleman.  On  the  day  long  after 
childhood  when  I  suddenly  heard  of  his 
death,  the  sky  grew  dark  above  my  head. 
I  was  walking  on  a  Southern  highway,  and  a 
friend  driving  in  a  pony  carriage  passed  me, 
stopped  and  said,  "  Have  you  heard  that 
Charles  Dickens  is  dead  ?  "  It  was  as  if  I 
had  been  robbed  of  one  of  the  dearest  of 
friends. 

In  the  beginning  of  my  life  books  were  to 
me  as  real  as  people,  and  the  characters  on 
the  printed  page  as  much  a  part  of  my  being 
as  those  whom  I  met  on  the  street  or  talked 
with  at  the  table.  I  would  not,  if  I  could, 
give  up  the  memory  of  the  joy  I  have  had 
in  books  for  any  advantage  that  could  be 
offered  in  other  pursuits  or  occupations. 
Books  have  been  to  me  what  gold  is  to  the 
miser,  what  new  fields  are  to  the  explorer, 


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what  a  new  discovery  is  to  the  scientific 
student.  The  great  harvest  of  pleasure  I 
have  had  in  them  had  its  seed-sowing  in 
the  little  home  library  that  was  the  chief 
treasure  of  my  childhood. 


VII 

OLD  FRIENDS 

IT  is  a  little  curious  to  note  how  the  stage 
setting  of  life  changes  from  one  period 
to  another.  The  scenery  shifts  as  it  does 
in  a  play.  There  is  for  each  of  us  the  back 
ground  of  home  and  kindred.  Here  we  have 
our  starting-point,  and  against  this  back 
ground,  as  on  a  canvas,  pictures  are  thrown, 
pictures  that  move  along  with  the  progress 
of  time.  Neighbours  and  friends  have  their 
entrance  and  exit  on  the  stage  of  life,  and 
the  friends  of  the  family  become  part  of  the 
pageantry  that  I  have  never  altogether  for 
gotten.  Friends  of  greater  or  less  degree  of 
intimacy  become  as  thoroughly  a  portion 
of  the  household  life  and  economy  as  those 
who  belong  to  it  by  ties  of  blood.  Thus,  as 
I  think  of  old  and  dear  familiar  friends  they 
seem  to  me  to  have  belonged  as  much  to  the 
panorama  of  childhood  as  did  my  nearest  of 
kin. 

Glancing  backward,  certain  figures  stand 
out  in  bold  relief  against  the  canvas.     One 

84 


OLD  FRIENDS  85 

friend  of  the  family  who  can  never  be  for 
gotten  was  an  energetic  spinster  who  taught 
in  one  of  the  public  schools,  and  who  at 
fifty,  growing  weary  of  the  particular  orbit 
in  which  she  had  moved,  decided  then  and 
there  to  study  music  and  devote  her  future 
time  to  giving  instructions  to  beginners. 
Teaching  music  seemed  to  her  preferable  to 
teaching  grammar  and  spelling.  She  was 
short  and  stout,  had  merry  twinkling  eyes, 
and  hair  sifted  over  with  gray.  Her  plump 
fingers  had  never  touched  a  piano,  and  she 
did  not  know  one  note  from  another.  She 
had  no  ear  for  melody,  and  the  only  tunes 
she  knew  were  those  she  sang  in  church. 
Nevertheless,  she  went  to  a  professor,  ar 
ranged  with  him  for  several  lessons  a  week, 
hired  a  piano  and  valiantly  attacked  the 
most  jealous  and  exacting  art  in  existence. 
Each  afternoon  when  her  work  for  the  day 
was  over  she  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  with 
stiff,  unaccustomed  fingers  played  scales  and 
exercises,  patiently  counting  one,  two,  three, 
four,  precisely  as  the  children  did.  Every 
one  prophesied  that  she  would  fail,  and  her 
thrifty  friends  to  a  woman  censured  her  for 
wasting  her  money  on  so  futile  an  under 
taking.  But  she  kept  on  her  genial  way, 


86  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

laughing  and  telling  stories  and  increasing 
her  daily  practice,  until  it  occupied  a  large 
portion  of  her  evenings. 

We  have  made  so  much  progress  in  mu 
sical  taste  and  are  so  much  more  exacting  than 
we  used  to  be  that  had  Miss  Winifred  lived  at 
present  she  must  inevitably  have  met  with 
disappointment.  People  were  satisfied  then 
with  much  less  than  is  demanded  now,  and 
the  dear  lady  after  two  years  of  study  resigned 
the  position  she  had  long  held,  rented  a 
studio  and  announced  herself  ready  to  re 
ceive  pupils.  She  soon  had  all  the  little 
boys  and  girls  for  whom  she  could  care,  and 
she  really  taught  them  very  well,  having  a 
great  store  of  patience,  and  succeeding  espe 
cially  in  making  them  accurate  readers  at 
sight,  and  in  cultivating  their  musical  memo 
ries.  Whether  they  touched  the  keys  lightly 
or  heavily,  held  their  hands  at  the  right  an 
gle,  or  learned  to  play  anything  except  the 
little  pieces  that  entertained  tired  fathers  at 
nightfall  after  a  day's  work,  I  do  not  know, 
but  Miss  Winifred  spent  ten  very  happy 
years  in  her  new  profession,  and  was  dearly 
loved  by  the  children  who  came  to  her. 

She  had  a  way  of  putting  her  arm  around 
a  little  girl  and  of  ruffling  a  boy's  tumbled 


OLD  FRIENDS  87 

hair  that  seemed  irresistible  to  her  small  pu 
pils,  and  as  a  story-teller  of  fairy-lore  and  of 
Indian  warfare  she  was  thoroughly  unsur 
passed.  As  she  boarded  and  had  no  people 
belonging  to  her,  she  was  a  welcome  Sunday 
evening  visitor  in  many  homes,  and  the  young 
people  of  all  ages  carried  to  her  their  confi 
dences  and  did  not  disdain  her  sensible 
advice. 

Miss  Winifred  had  the  priceless  gift  of 
humour.  She  saw  the  fun  in  a  situation 
and  her  wit  responded  to  it  in  a  flash,  but 
there  was  no  malice  in  her  sallies,  and  she 
won  the  hearts  of  old  people  by  listening  to 
their  thrice-told  tales  without  a  sign  of  hav 
ing  heard  them  before.  Her  chief  domestic 
accomplishment  was  knitting,  and  she  made 
beautiful  little  garments  for  babies  and  shawls 
for  old  ladies.  Miss  Winifred  was  gathered 
to  her  fathers  in  a  good  old  age,  and  very 
generally  lamented. 

Another  friend  stands  out  vividly  in  recol 
lection  because  she  was  the  first  bride  whom  I 
ever  personally  knew  in  the  glory  of  bridal  rai 
ment.  We  called  her  Miss  Mary.  She  Often 
spent  long  periods  in  our  home,  and  she  had 
quick,  alert  ways  that  reminded  one  of  a  bird. 
Cheery,  brave,  straightforward,  and  singu- 


88  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

larly  unselfish,  she  was  a  second  self  to  my 
mother  who  years  before  had  lost  her  only 
sister.  There  was  no  tie  of  blood,  yet  Miss 
Mary  was  like  a  sister,  and  like  an  aunt  to 
us.  The  friendship  with  her  continued 
through  the  years  of  her  long  life.  The  last 
time  I  saw  her  was  one  wintry  day  when  she 
came  to  my  home  for  an  unexpected  call. 
She  was  now  widowed  and  childless  and  very 
solitary.  Her  own  home  had  been  given  up, 
and  she  was  living  most  comfortably  in  that 
of  a  brother.  But  she  had  reached  the  rest 
less  time  that  comes  to  old  people  when 
many  of  their  natural  ties  are  severed,  and 
their  hands  seem  empty  because  they  have 
little  to  do  and  are  nowhere  indispensable. 
The  same  quick,  short  step  that  had  been 
hers  when  young  was  hers  in  the  shadow  of 
eighty,  and  she  had  the  same  impetuous  and 
peremptory  manner.  "  I  am  not  contented 
at  J.'s,"  she  said  to  me.  "I  don't  feel  at 
home  there.  The  house  is  too  big,  the  floors 
are  too  slippery  and  the  butler  is  too  solemn. 
I  mean  to  pack  up,  leave  there  and  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  with  you.  I  shall  be  with 
you  in  a  week,  and  you  can  just  have  my 
room  ready.  Let  me  have  the  one  next  to 
yours." 


OLD  FRIENDS  89 

What  could  I  do  but  gather  the  little  figure 
close  into  my  arms  and  assure  her  that  if  she 
wished  to  come,  I  wished  to  have  her  do  so  ? 
We  planned  it  before  she  left,  and  she  went 
briskly  down  the  street  with  the  pace  that 
was  like  a  toy  wound  up,  smiling  at  the 
corner  and  waving  her  hand.  A  week  later 
she  was  in  her  Father's  house  in  the  home 
land,  safe  and  contented  and  beyond  all 
weariness,  with  the  kindred  who  had  gone 
before.  There  was  no  illness,  only  a  few 
hours  of  faint  weakness,  and  the  silver  cord 
was  loosed. 

My  first  childish  visit  away  from  home 
was  made  under  the  care  of  this  friend,  and 
we  came  together  in  the  summer  of  1848  to 
spend  a  few  days  in  Bloomfield,  New  Jersey, 
a  little  distance  only  from  the  place  where  I 
am  now  writing.  There  is  an  old  garden 
here  past  which  I  sometimes  walk,  and  in  it 
flowers  are  blooming  as  they  bloomed  when 
Miss  Mary  and  I  alighted  from  the  carriage 
at  the  door  of  the  friendly  house  that  gath 
ered  us  in. 

The  summer  of  1848  was  darkened  by  a 
cholera  epidemic.  Hundreds  of  victims  died 
after  a  few  hours'  illness.  Whole  families 
were  swept  away  by  the  scourge.  The  first 


90  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

two  days  of  my  visit  with  Miss  Mary  glided 
blissfully  away.  We  were  to  have  remained 
a  week,  but  a  messenger  came  urging  our  im 
mediate  return,  and  we  took  leave  of  our 
hosts  with  disappointment,  Miss  Mary  feel 
ing  as  acutely  as  I  that  our  visit  was  too 
soon  ended. 

The  family  at  home  had  fallen  into  a 
panic,  the  dread  disease  having  invaded  the 
household  of  intimate  friends.  Miss  Mary 
was  especially  vexed  at  our  summons  back. 
"  Why  should  we  rush  straight  into  the 
lion's  mouth  when  we  are  really  safe  and 
comfortable  ?  "  I  sympathized  with  her  feel 
ing  of  regret  at  a  visit  being  cut  short  in  the 
middle,  but  I  understood  later  the  wave  of 
uncertainty  and  terror  that  swept  through 
the  community  and  made  every  one  feel  that 
it  was  better  to  have  the  dear  ones  close 
around  the  hearth  than  separated. 

A  third  friend  whose  portrait  is  fadeless  in 
memory  was  young  and  strong  when  I  sat  on 
his  knee  and  talked  to  him  in  the  firelight. 
His  Christian  name  was  Anthony,  and  it 
might  well  have  had  the  prefix  Saint,  for 
few  men  whom  I  have  ever  known  so  well 
deserved  the  title.  Anthony  was  a  hired 
man  who  went  on  various  errands  and  did 


OLD  FRIENDS  91 

all  sorts  of  things,  who  loved  horses  and 
dogs  and  understood  every  detail  of  farm 
work.  When  a  small  boy  he  had  lost  the 
sight  of  an  eye  by  accident,  and  when  he 
lived  with  us  he  was  gradually  losing  the 
sight  of  the  other.  In  later  years  he  became 
totally  blind  and  almost  totally  deaf.  Not 
withstanding  these  limitations,  he  continued 
to  work  with  his  hands  on  one  or  another 
farm  in  New  Jersey,  so  long  as  his  strength 
endured.  He  learned  how  to  make  baskets 
and  fish-nets,  and  after  he  could  no  longer 
toil  at  difficult  labour  he  made  and  sold 
these  among  his  friends.  During  all  the 
years  that  I  knew  Anthony  Beam  I  never 
once  heard  him  complain  of  blindness,  deaf 
ness  or  poverty.  "  I  have  a  rich  Father  in 
heaven,"  he  would  say,  "  and  my  wants  will 
always  be  supplied."  They  always  were,  to 
the  end,  and  Anthony  lived  to  be  an  old,  old 
man.  He  had  food,  shelter  and  clothing  and 
just  enough  money  in  his  pocket  to  enable 
him  to  go  from  place  to  place  in  the  little 
round  of  his  visits  to  friends. 

In  the  winter  he  would  find  an  asylum  in 
the  hospitable  home  of  a  Sussex  County 
farmer,  where  he  would  make  himself  unob 
trusively  useful,  and  was  welcome  to  stay  as 


92  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

long  as  it  pleased  him.  When  spring  came 
and  the  snows  were  gone,  he  emerged  from 
this  seclusion  and  went  to  one  or  another 
home  of  those  whom  he  had  known  or  served 
in  other  days.  I  never  knew  when  he  might 
appear  at  my  door  in  the  spring  or  the  sum 
mer,  but  I  counted  on  at  least  two  visits 
from  him  of  a  week  or  ten  days  during  the 
season. 

He  never  missed  attendance  at  church,  al 
though  for  years  he  could  not  hear  a  word  of 
prayer  or  sermon,  but  he  said  that  he  gained 
great  comfort  and  strength  by  sitting  in  the 
sanctuary  and  having  a  place  among  the 
people  of  God.  He  loved  to  hear  the  Bible 
read,  and  though  his  deafness  made  it  a  dim- 
cult  task,  there  were  few  households  in 
which  some  one  did  not  read  a  portion  of 
Scripture  to  Anthony  before  wishing  him 
good-night.  What  he  would  have  done  had 
he  lived  until  motor  cars  added  a  new  peril 
to  pedestrians,  I  do  not  know,  but  he  went 
about  confidently ,  finding  helpers  everywhere 
in  his  blindness,  crossing  Broadway  when  it 
was  most  crowded,  and  fearlessly  passing 
from  point  to  point,  never  meeting  with  de 
lay  or  accident.  Towards  the  end  of  his  life 
he  received  from  somewhere  a  little  legacy. 


OLD  FRIENDS  93 

He  told  me  how  it  had  dropped  into  his 
hands  unexpectedly,  a  gift  from  heaven. 
"  You  will  save  it,  Anthony,"  I  said,  "  to  take 
care  of  you  if  you  are  ill,  or  to  help  you  in 
a  rainy  day  ?  " 

"  I  won't  be  ill,"  he  answered.  "  Why 
should  I  prepare  for  that?  And  I  have 
never  had  a  rainy  day  and  none  is  coming. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  this 
money.  It  isn't  very  much,  but  it  is  enough 
to  let  me  put  a  stone  above  my  mother's 
grave  that  has  been  unmarked  for  thirty 
years,  and  to  put  a  railing  around  it  and  buy 
ground  enough  for  me  to  lie  beside  her.  If 
there  is  any  left  after  that  it  shall  go  into  the 
missionary  box." 

More  than  once  since  Anthony's  death  I 
have  met  in  Northern  New  Jersey  at  a  mis 
sionary  or  association  meeting  some  one  who 
has  introduced  herself  by  saying,  "  You  used 
to  know  Anthony  Beam."  Immediately 
there  has  been  a  bond  between  the  stranger 
and  me.  The  dear  old  man,  utterly  poor  in 
this  world's  goods  for  five  and  seventy  years, 
unable  from  early  manhood  to  see  more  than 
the  difference  between  light  and  dark,  de 
barred  by  his  deafness  from  hearing  sweet 
sounds,  and  without  education  beyond  what 


94  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

he  had  acquired  at  the  District  School 
when  he  was  very  young,  was  still  one  of 
nature's  gentlemen,  a  child  of  God  and  a 
humble  follower  of  the  Master.  So  he  be 
longed  to  a  royal  brotherhood,  and  it  was  a 
privilege  to  have  him  for  a  friend.  He 
loved  little  children  and  they  loved  him. 
In  whatever  house  he  entered  he  was  at 
home.  Servants  never  resented  his  coming, 
and  whatever  their  creed,  they  recognized  in 
him  a  man  whose  religion  was  real.  Among 
old  friends  I  have  few  whose  claim  to  re 
gard  is  higher  than  that  of  blind  Anthony. 

Other  friends  are  remembered  too  all  the 
more  tenderly  that  most  of  them  are  no 
longer  here.  One  dear  lady  who  was  with  us 
until  a  recent  period  was  fourteen  years  my 
senior.  She  used  to  come  to  the  house  when 
I  was  in  my  cradle,  and  through  my  entire 
life  she  was  my  devoted  friend.  Visits  to  the 
home  of  her  parents  were  among  the  pleasures 
of  my  early  days,  and  her  visits  to  our  house 
were  always  a  joy.  I  particularly  loved  to 
visit  her  because,  forsooth,  in  the  living- 
room  there  was  a  certain  low,  broad,  old 
sofa,  with  red  cushions  and  ample  room  for 
one  to  curl  up  in  comfort  and  read  as  long  as 
one  chose.  My  friend  never  disturbed  me 


OLD  FRIENDS  95 

in  this  enjoyment.  She  would  pass  in  and 
out  of  the  room,  letting  me  read  or  dream  as 
I  liked. 

Hers  was  a  sweet,  strong,  symmetrical 
character.  There  was  a  large  family,  and  in 
it  she  was  my  especial  guardian.  Towards 
the  end  of  her  days  her  memory  failed  in 
certain  phases,  and  while  she  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  recalling  the  past,  she  forgot  what 
had  happened  within  a  day  or  two.  Being 
fond  of  her  pen  she  wrote  long  letters  to 
those  she  cared  for,  and  it  was  not  an  un 
common  thing  for  me  to  receive  from  her 
several  times  a  week  a  letter  containing  pre 
cisely  the  same  words  and  phrases,  the  same 
tidings  and  the  same  protestations  of  affec 
tion. 

Why  linger  over  these  memories,  except 
that  they  are  so  fragrant  and  have  about 
them  so  sweet  an  aroma  of  tenderness j*  It  is 
as  if  they  had  been  laid  by  in  lavender. 
One  of  these  da}^s  all  these  friends  will  meet 
again,  and  it  will  be  as  if  there  had  been  no 
break,  only  a  little  waiting  time  and  then  re 
union. 


VIII 

PASSAIC  SEMINARY 

IN  my  childhood  the  town  of  Paterson,  sit- 
uated  in  a  lovely  valley,  rimmed  by  green 
hills,  was  full  of  the  hum  of  factory  life. 
Cotton  mills,  silk  mills  and  paper  mills, 
foundries  of  one  or  another  variety,  and  the 
stir  and  activity  of  a  manufacturing  centre 
were  the  distinctive  features  of  the  place. 
Operatives  in  great  numbers  lived  there  then 
as  now,  although  at  that  time  there  were  few 
working  men  from  the  discontented  ranks  of 
Europe.  The  thriving  city  has  grown  im 
mensely  in  population  and  wealth.  It  has 
had  repeated  visitations  of  fire  and  flood  from 
which  it  has  emerged  in  renovated  beauty. 
With  independent  self-respect,  Paterson  has 
accepted  no  outside  assistance,  however  great 
the  emergency  or  complete  the  disaster. 

At  the  time  concerning  which  I  write 
there  were  two  private  schools  for  girls  in 
the  place,  one  located  in  an  aristocratic 
neighbourhood,  of  which  the  chief  distinc 
tion  was  a  residence  that  crowned  a  small 

96 


PASSAIC  SEMINARY  97 

eminence.  This  place  bore  the  name  of 
Colt's  Hill,  and  being  surrounded  by  elaborate 
grounds  open  to  the  public  if  they_were  con 
tented  simply  to  walk  about  among  the  lawns 
and  flower  beds,  was  a  real  boon  to  people  of 
all  degrees.  The  mansion  was  large  and 
stately,  and  on  either  side  of  the  doorway 
there  sat  in  a  stone  chair  a  life-sized  figure  in 
stone.  The  characters  represented  by  these 
effigies  were  taken  from  the  poems  of  Robert 
Burns,  and  they  were  a  source  of  delight  to 
children  venturing  up  the  broad  steps  and 
laying  dimpled  palms  on  the  knees  of  the 
great  immovable  brown  men.  One  school 
was  situated  not  far  from  Colt's  Hill  and  was 
conducted  by  a  lady  who  had  travelled  ex 
tensively  and  was  a  personage  of  elegance 
and  refinement. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  town  in  an  equally 
retired  and  agreeable  neighbourhood  was  an 
other  school,  the  one  of  which  I  think  with 
a  love  that  has  never  grown  cold. 

Passaic  Seminary  was  a  long,  low,  white 
building  on  a  bank  of  the  river  after  which 
it  was  named.  It  stood  on  the  rear  of  a  lot 
back  of  the  pleasant  house  that  was  the  home 
of  the  three  dear  teachers  whose  influence 
did  so  much  to  shape  the  lives  of  the  girls 


98  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

under  their  charge.  These  ladies  seemed  to 
the  children  they  taught  older  than  they 
really  were,  for  children  have  no  standard  of 
measurement  by  which  to  judge  the  age  of 
their  elders.  I  have  an  idea  that  Miss  Rog 
ers  may  have  been  under  thirty  when  she 
assumed  the  office  of  principal  in  the  excel 
lent  private  school  that  she  and  her  sisters, 
Miss  Elizabeth  and  Miss  Jane,  successfully 
conducted  for  nearly  twenty  years.  Miss 
Jane,  the  youngest  of  the  trio,  married  and 
left  the  school  to  the  care  of  her  older  sisters, 
but  this  was  after  I  had  myself  left  it  for 
another  institution. 

These  highly  bred  and  gifted  women  were 
the  daughters  of  a  Baptist  minister,  the 
Reverend  John  Rogers.  He  and  his  wife  were 
then  living  in  the  pleasant  house  on  the 
front  of  the  lot.  It  faced  the  street,  and 
shielded  from  the  observation  of  passers-by 
the  school  building  in  the  garden  behind  it. 
A  widowed  daughter  resided  with  them,  and  a 
son  who  was  a  physician.  The  latter,  Dr.  John 
Rogers,  of  Paterson,  New  Jersey,  lived  to  an 
advanced  age  and  passed  away  only  a  little 
while  ago.  Until  he  was  over  ninety  he  went 
unattended  to  Europe  at  his  discretion  to 
take  part  in  medical  conventions.  Even 


PASSAIC  SEMINARY  99 

when  beyond  that  ancient  land-mark  he  was 
held  in  honour  by  younger  men  of  his  pro 
fession. 

Dr.  Rogers,  like  all  his  family,  was  filled 
with  a  great  devotion  to  the  cause  of  for 
eign  missions.  Although  never  possessed  of 
wealth  for  many  years  he  paid  the  salary  of 
a  foreign  missionary  as  his  contribution  to  the 
work  he  loved,  saying  that  as  he  could  not 
go  in  person  to  the  Far  East  he  would  have 
his  substitute  there.  This  may  appear  to  be 
a  digression,  but  since  the  beginnings  of  my 
interest  in  and  love  for  foreign  missions  date 
to  the  time  when  I  attended  what  we  girls 
called  "  Miss  Anna's  school,"  it  is  pertinent 
in  the  reminiscences  that  I  am  setting 
down. 

The  motive  underlying  every  hour  of  life 
in  those  early  school-days  was  a  sense  of  re 
sponsibility.  The  teachers  were  in  the  habit 
of  answering  our  questions  with  quotations 
from  the  Bible.  Thus  a  girl  who  had  been 
a  little  heedless  and  had  not  done  her  best 
in  recitation  or  exercises  might  find  in  her 
desk  in  the  morning  a  slip  of  paper  on  which 
was  inscribed  the  text,  "  Whatsoever  thy 
hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might," 
and  then  "  I  thought  you  might  be  forgetting 


100  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

this  injunction,"  with  the  initials  of  the 
teacher  who  had  noticed  the  delinquent. 

I  once,  as  a  child  of  eleven,  left  a  ques 
tion  of  conscience  on  the  desk  of  Miss  Jane, 
whose  sweet  face  and  charming  manner  made 
her  our  idol,  and  whose  gracious  loveliness 
we  copied  afar  off.  Looking  to-day  over 
some  letters  dated  1849,  I  trace  in  my  hand 
writing  of  that  day  a  resemblance  to  hers, 
and  I  know  that  all  the  girls  who  knew  her 
tried  their  best  to  imitate  everything  about 
her,  from  her  noiseless,  gliding  step  and  her 
low-toned  voice  to  her  beautiful  script  as 
clear  and  fine  as  copper-plate,  though  not  as 
stiff.  I  have  not  the  least  recollection  of  my 
question,  what  it  was  or  why  I  could  not 
settle  it  myself,  but  I  kept  the  answer  for 
years  in  the  repository  of  all  my  treasures, 
an  atlas  that  was  my  most  beloved  posses 
sion.  Miss  Jane  wrote  as  follows  :  "  Dear 

M ,  isn't  this  the  rule  you  want? 

'  Whether  ye  eat  or  drink,  or  whatsoever 
ye  do,  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God.'  "  The 
youthful  mentor  could  not  have  been  far  be 
yond  twenty,  and  the  child  to  whom  she 
wrote  was  eleven  ! 

Once  a  frightful  thunder-storm  rushed 
down  the  valley,  when  the  booming  of  the 


PASSAIC  SEMINARY  101 

tempest,  crash  upon  crash,  was  accompanied 
by  vivid  sheetsof  lightning,  and  the  hail-stones 
pattered  on  the  roof  like  the  rattle  of  musketry. 
We  were  very  quiet  until  that  summer  storm 
had  spent  its  force,  and  we  were  not  a  little 
alarmed.  It  was  so  dark  that  work  was  sus 
pended,  and  we  sat  at  our  desks  hushed  and 
waiting.  When  the  sun  came  out  again  Miss 
Anna  talked  to  us,  anticipating  much  teach 
ing  of  to-day,  about  the  folly  of  fear.  She 
told  us  we  were  always  in  the  care  of  God, 
and  that  could  we  only  realize  His  presence 
we  would  feel  as  safe  in  the  wildest  storm  as 
under  the  bluest  summer  sky.  Then  some 
body  went  to  the  piano  and  the  school  rose 
and  joined  in  a  German  song,  the  first  stanza 
of  which  was, 

"It  thunders,  but  I  tremble  not ; 

My  trust  is  firm  in  God. 
His  arm  of  strength  I've  ever  sought 
In  all  the  way  I've  trod." 

Our  teachers  insisted  upon  self-control  as 
one  of  the  most  essential  attributes  of  wom 
anly  character.  "  It  is  no  excuse,"  Miss 
Anna  would  say,  "  that  you  were  off  guard, 
that  you  did  not  think,  that  you  forgot  your 
self.  One's  business  is  to  be  on  guard, 


102  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

and  one   must  think  before  she  speaks  or 
acts." 

The  desks  and  school  furniture  were  green. 
There  was  a  row  of  desks  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  while  two  others  were  nearer  the 
windows.  We  could  glance  out  and  see  little 
boats  sailing  up  and  down,  and  we  loved  to 
think  of  the  river,  never  hurrying,  never 
resting,  tumbling  with  headlong  swiftness 
indeed,  over  the  rocks  at  the  Passaic  Falls, 
where  a  sheer  descent  of  forty  feet  made  rain 
bows  in  the  sun  and  frothed  and  foamed  like 
a  miniature  Niagara.  The  tumult  and  fer 
ment  of  the  falls  were  not  near  our  school. 
Where  the  river  flowed  past  our  door  it  was 
deep,  smooth  and  calm.  In  my  girlhood  I 
finished  a  poem,  "  The  River,"  the  germ  of 
which  came  to  me  as  I  sat  in  the  schoolroom 
and  watched  the  waves  I  loved. 


Far  up  on  the  mountain  the  river  begins, — 

I  saw  it,  a  thread  in  the  sun. 
Then  it  grew  to  a  brook,  and,  through  dell  and 
through  nook, 

It  dimpled  and  danced  in  its  fun. 

A  ribbon  of  silver,  it  sparkled  along 
Over  meadows  besprinkled  with  gold ; 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl,  and  a  loop  and  a  curl, 
Through  the  pastures  the  rivulet  rolled. 


PASSAIC  SEMINAKY  103 

Then  on  to  the  valleys  it  leaped  and  it  laughed, 

Till  it  stronger  and  stiller  became ; 
On  its  banks  the  tall  trees  rocked  their  boughs 
in  the  breeze, 

And  the  lilies  were  tapers  aflame. 

The  children  threw  pebbles,  and  shouted  with  glee 
At  the  circles  they  made  in  the  stream  ; 

And  the  white  fisher-boat,  sent  so  lightly  afloat, 
Drifted  off  like  a  sail  in  a  dream. 


Deep-hearted,  the  mirth  of  its  baby-life  past, 

It  toiled  for  the  grinding  of  corn  ; 
Its  shores  heard  the  beat  of  the  lumberman's  feet, 

His  raft  on  its  current  was  borne. 


At  inlet  and  cove,  where  its  harbours  were  fair, 

Vast  cities  arose  in  their  pride, 
And  the  wealth  of  their  streets  came  from  beau 
tiful  fleets, 

Forth  launched  on  its  affluent  tide. 

The  glorious  river  swept  on  to  the  sea, 

The  sea  that  encircles  the  land  ; 
But  I  saw  it  begin  in  a  thread  I  could  spin, 

Like  a  cobweb  of  silk,  in  my  hand. 

And  I  thought  of  the  river  that  flows  from  the 
throne, 

Of  the  love  that  is  deathless  and  free, — 
Of  the  grace  of  his  peace  that  shall  ever  increase, 

Christ-given  to  you  and  to  me. 

Far  up  on  the  mountain,  and  near  to  the  sky, 

The  cup  full  of  water  is  seen, 
That  is  brimmed  till  its  tide  carries  benisons  wide 

Where  the  dales  and  the  meadows  are  green. 


104  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Is  thy  soul  like  a  cup  ?    Let  its  little  be  given, 

Not  stinted  nor  churlish,  to  One 
Who  will  fill  thee  with  love,  and  His  faithfulness 
prove, 

And  bless  thee  in  shadow  and  sun. 


One  day  last  week  I  was  talking  with  an 
old  schoolmate  who  like  myself  was  drilled 
in  spelling,  syntax  and  etymology,  history 
and  French,  in  Passaic  Seminary.  We  agreed 
in  thinking  that  while  the  instruction  given 
was  thorough,  and  the  work  required  marked 
up  to  the  highest  standard  of  the  period,  yet 
we  were  more  indebted  to  our  teachers  for 
ethical  and  literary  culture  than  for  the  ac 
cretion  of  facts.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
method  of  Mr.  Gradgrind  in  that  school. 
The  discipline  was  perfect.  It  was  appar 
ently  taken  for  granted  that  every  one  in 
the  schoolroom  was  there  to  learn.  The  least 
disorder  was  quelled  by  a  glance  of  surprise 
from  the  desk,  and  when  the  roll  was  called 
at  the  end  of  each  day  the  girls  themselves 
reported  any  violations  of  the  rules  or  deflec 
tion  from  a  straight  line  of  duty  of  which 
they  were  aware.  Their  reports  were  ac 
cepted,  and  a  high  standard  of  honour  was 
inculcated  and  maintained.  In  the  morn 
ing  at  the  tinkle  of  the  bell  the  laughing, 


PASSAIC  SEMINARY  105 

chatting  groups  separated  and  each  girl  took 
her  seat.  I  can  see  Miss  Anna  to-day,  a  tall, 
slender  figure  with  a  grave  and  gentle  face, 
brown  hair  smoothly  banded  and  gathered 
in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  a  sort  of 
loose  Psyche  knot.  She  always  wore  black 
and  her  watch  was  attached  to  a  slender  gold 
chain  about  her  neck.  Miss  Anna's  watch 
was  like  herself;  it  kept  perfect  time. 

The  school  was  opened  by  the  singing  of  a 
hymn,  the  reading  of  a  passage  of  Scripture 
and  a  little  five-minute  talk  by  the  teacher, 
followed  by  a  short  prayer  and  "  Our  Father 
in  heaven,"  in  which  we  all  joined.  On  two 
mornings  in  the  week  we  had  composition 
writing  and  exercises  in  phrases,  the  forma 
tion  of  sentences,  the  supplying  of  proper 
words  in  blanks  that  were  left  to  be  filled, 
and  the  rendering  equivalents  for  words  that 
were  dictated  from  the  desk.  Our  juvenile 
essays  ranged  over  a  wide  field.  The  school 
mate  to  whom  I  talked  told  me  that  she  re 
membered  as  I  do  writing  upon  the  attri 
butes  of  God,  His  mercy,  wisdom,  justice,  etc. 
That  we  were  extremely  homiletic  and  rather 
given  to  quoting  the  Scriptures  and  adding 
to  texts  our  private  comments,  I  am  afraid  is 
true.  At  all  events  a  composition  of  mine 


106  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

that  I  venture  to  insert,  a  very  didactic  pro 
duction  to  have  emanated  from  a  girl  of 
twelve,  seems  to  prove  this  : 

11  Guard  well  thy  thoughts, 
For  thoughts  are  heard  in  heaven." 

How  careful  we  should  be  to  watch  our  thoughts. 
At  the  last  great  day,  when  Christ,  robed  as  a  judge, 
upon  His  Father's  throne  shall  sit,  not  only  the  words 
and  actions,  but  the  most  secret  thoughts  of  men  will 
be  brought  to  light.  David,  the  sweet  Psalmist  of 
Israel,  exclaims,  Psalm  139:2,  "  Thou  kno west  my 
downsitting,  and  mine  uprising,  Thou  understandest 
my  thoughts  afar  off."  If  then  Jehovah  sees  our  in 
most  thoughts,  and  even  knows  them  before  they 
enter  our  minds,  should  we  not  be  careful  to  banish 
wicked  imaginations  from  the  lofty  throne,  where 
they  would  fain  place  themselves,  and  raise  holy  re 
flections  upon  the  Almighty  to  the  much  envied  seat. 
If,  however,  there  were  no  consequences  arising  from 
the  fact  that  the  Supreme  Being  knows  the  secrets  of 
the  heart,  it  would  scarcely  be  a  sufficient  reason  for 
us  to  guard  well  our  thoughts.  On  the  contrary,  we 
are  told  that  the  doom  of  each  will  be  sealed  for 
eternity,  according  to  the  manner  in  which  she  has 
regulated  her  thoughts  while  here. 

As  there  are  many  different  kinds  of  thoughts 
which  should  be  guarded  against,  I  will  endeavour  to 
mention  a  few  of  them.  Solomon,  the  wisest  man 
who  ever  lived,  says,  Proverbs  24  :  9,  "  The  thought 
of  foolishness  is  sin."  Thus  we  see  that  the  foolish 
and  useless  imaginations  of  the  heart  are  just  as  sin- 


PASSAIC  SEMINARY  107 

fed  as  wicked  actions.  David  says,  Psalm  94  : 11, 
"The  Lord  knoweth  the  thoughts  of  man  that  they 
are  vanity."  Yes  !  each  imagination  of  the  mind  is 
imperfect  and  defiled  in  the  sight  of  God. 

The  thoughts  of  the  wicked  are  particularly  odious 
to  the  eye  of  God.  He  declares  them  to  be  altogether 
an  abomination  to  Him.  In  Proverbs  11 :  20,  He 
says,  they  who  are  froward  in  heart  are  particularly 
sinful,  and  as  such  are  exceedingly  deserving  of  His 
displeasure.  Having  seen  that  God  hates  the  wicked 
and  is  angry  with  them  every  day,  I  will  try  to  prove 
the  certainty  of  their  punishment.  Solomon  says  in 
Proverbs  10  :  26,  27,  28  and  29,  "  The  fear  of  the  Lord 
prolongeth  days  ;  but  the  years  of  the  wicked  shall  be 
shortened.  The  hope  of  the  righteous  shall  be  glad 
ness,  but  the  expectation  of  the  wicked  shall  perish. 
The  way  of  the  Lord  is  strength  to  the  upright  j  but 
destruction  shall  be  to  the  workers  of  iniquity.'7 

We  are  told  in  Matthew  15  :  19  that  all  evil 
thoughts  proceed  from  the  heart.  Yes,  that  is  the 
fountain  of  all  evil.  It  is  truly  "deceitful  above 
all  things,  and  desperately  wicked."  We  should  be 
careful  to  guard  it  well. 

Reflection  upon  God's  mercy  in  sending  His  only 
and  Beloved  Son  to  bleed  and  die  for  sinners,  or  upon 
the  rules  of  duty  laid  down  in  the  Bible,  that  blessed 
Book,  are  very  suitable  indeed.  We  should  upon  all 
occasions  endeavour  to  fix  our  thoughts  upon  serious 
subjects,  remembering  that  the  very  thought  of  folly 
is  sin.  When  our  thoughts  wander  to  and  fro  upon 
the  mountains  of  vanity,  we  should  think  of  the 
wickedness  of  which  we  are  guilty,  in  allowing  them 
to  do  so.  We  should  pray  to  God  for  assistance  to 
restrain  them,  and  He  will  grant  it. 


108  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

I  was  a  few  days  past  my  twelfth  birthday 
when  I  wrote  this  amazing  and  formidable 
production.  Some  of  its  assertions  ought  to 
have  received  the  ban  of  disapproval. 
Whether  they  did  I  do  not  know.  I 
think,  however,  that  the  composition  showed 
a  good  deal  of  industry  in  looking  up 
references,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it 
could  have  been  matched  by  many  girls 
of  an  older  period  than  mine,  those,  for 
instance,  of  the  period  of  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe. 

About  this  time  we  were  greatly  interested 
in  Dr.  Judson  and  his  missionary  work  in 
India.  We  girls  resolved  to  have  a  mission 
ary  society  of  our  own.  We  asked  and  ob^ 
tained  leave  to  use  a  small  recitation  room 
as  a  place  for  weekly  meeting,  occasionally 
varying  it  by  an  afternoon  at  one  of  our 
homes.  In  these  meetings  we  read  all  that 
we  could  secure  on  missionary  subjects,  wa 
contributed  our  offerings,  saving  our  six^ 
pences  and  shillings  by  self-denial,  anrt 
finally  making  a  quilt  which  was  sold  for  UP 
by  our  mothers  at  a  church  fair. 

At  a  missionary  meeting  held  in  Philadel 
phia  a  dozen  years  ago,  I  met  a  lady  who 
said  to  me,  "  Have  you  forgotten  Emma 


PASSAIC  SEMINARY  109 

F ?  "  She  had  been  a  member  of  our  lit 
tle  missionary  band,  and  she  told  me  that  the 
very  quilt  made  by  our  little  fingers  had  been 
in  the  possession  of  her  family  for  a  long 
time. 

Every  one  of  us  longed  to  give  her  life  in 
the  service  of  Christ  on  a  foreign  shore.  This 
is  a  not  uncommon  ambition  of  the  young 
Christian,  and  if  it  lead  to  real  consecration  to 
missionary  effort  at  home  as  well  as  abroad, 
it  is  a  phase  that  enriches  life.  Our  ac 
quaintance  with  missionary  literature  was 
enlarged  by  the  reading  to  which  we  listened 
during  our  sewing  hours  in  school.  Twice  a 
week  sewing  by  hand  was  very  carefully 
taught.  No  gentlewoman  was  then  supposed 
to  be  even  half  educated  unless  she  had  been 
made  past  mistress  of  needle  craft.  We  were 
taught  to  hem,  fell,  overhand,  gather  and  do 
everything  else  that  belonged  to  the  making 
of  garments.  Hemstitching,  embroidering 
and  working  in  wools  were  a  part  of  the 
course  of  instruction  in  this  branch.  While 
we  sewed  Miss  Jane  read  to  us,  and  her 
choice  was  always  biography  or  history. 
Naturally  she  turned  to  the  topics  that  were 
of  chief  interest  to  her  and  her  family,  and 
so  we  were  early  made  acquainted  with  the 


110  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

heroism  and  romance  of  missions.  She 
varied  this  sometimes  by  reading  poetry, 
but  as  most  of  the  girls  preferred  prose, 
poetry  was  only  an  occasional  choice. 


WHOEVER  recollects  the  externals 
of  education  in  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century  must  admit  that 
significant  changes  have  been  made  in  the 
training  of  girls  since  then.  Yet,  are  we 
quite  sure  that  the  real  progress  is  worth  all 
that  it  costs?  Do  we  not  sometimes  find 
ourselves  questioning  whether  after  all  the 
liberally  educated  woman  of  to-day  is  much 
in  advance  of  her  predecessor  of  fifty  years 
ago?  Our  daughters  and  granddaughters 
have,  it  is  true,  possessed  the  advantage  of 
an  extended  college  curriculum ;  are  free,  if 
they  choose,  to  take  postgraduate  courses 
abroad  and  at  home.  They  may  generally 
share  the  education  of  young  men,  on  equal 
terms. 

To  hear  the  fragmentary  talk  of  some  of 
our  juniors,  one  would  imagine  that  we  had 
received  our  training  in  the  dark  ages.  It 
would  be  absurd  to  deny  that  pedagogy  has 

111 


112  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

become  a  science,  and  that  large  and  intelli 
gent  attention  has,  in  these  latter  days,  been 
bestowed  upon  the  preparation  of  teachers 
for  their  work.  Whoever,  notwithstanding, 
falls  into  the  mistake  of  supposing  that  in 
the  early  fifties  girls  had  little  work  to  do  at 
school,  and  that  the  work  required  was  not 
thorough,  ought  to  be  at  once  enlightened. 

I  have  heard  people  say  in  a  superior  fash 
ion  that  the  emphasis  of  education  used  to 
be  placed  on  accomplishments,  and  that 
girls  of  good  families  were  taught  a  little 
drawing  and  painting,  a  little  instrumental 
music,  a  little  French  and  a  little  Italian, 
and  were  then  considered  fit  for  society  and 
the  ordinary  conduct  of  life.  Note  the 
diminutive. 

The  phrase  "  finishing  school "  is  not 
yet  altogether  obsolete.  Within  a  twelve 
month  I  have  conversed  with  a  cultivated 
American  woman  who  warmly  expressed 
the  conviction  that  daughters  and  sons 
should  be  differently  educated.  "  My  boys 
shall  go  to  the  university,"  she  said.  "  My 
girls  shall  have  an  all-round  training  at 
home,  be  well  grounded  in  English  and 
thoroughly  taught  in  French,  and  then 
they  shall  have  a  year  or  two  at  the  best 


A  SCHOOLGIRL  IN  THE  FIFTIES     113 

finishing  school  their  father  can  afford.  I 
am  convinced,"  this  friend  went  on  to  say, 
"  that  to  educate  girls  as  we  educate  boys  is 
a  blunder  that  is  likely  to  work  injury  to 
the  future  welfare  of  the  family  in  America." 

I  do  not  share  the  opinion,  nor  would  I 
sanction  the  practice  of  this  thoughtful 
woman,  and  still  I  am  willing  to  put  on 
record  my  belief  that  it  is  possible  to  crowd 
too  much  into  and  be  too  strenuous  in  the 
four  years  allotted  to  girls  in  a  college  course. 
We  did  not  go  to  college,  but  reviewing 
what  we  did,  the  results  as  I  have  seen  them 
in  the  lives  of  a  number  of  my  friends  and 
schoolmates  have  not  been  disappointing. 

The  French  and  English  school  that  I  at 
tended  in  Brooklyn,  the  diploma  of  which 
was  my  certificate  of  labor  conscientiously 
performed,  was  situated  on  the  corner  of 
Fourth  and  South  Ninth  Streets  in  what  is 
now  the  Eastern  District  of  Brooklyn. 
Fourth  Street  has  become  Bedford  Avenue, 
and  the  city  has  undergone  great  changes 
since  those  school-days.  At  that  time  there 
were  few  houses  beyond  our  school,  and  the 
limit  of  occupation  was  reached  when  we 
came  by  a  short  walk  to  Christ  Church  in 
the  fields.  Long  ago  those  open  fields  be- 


114:  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

came  busy  streets.  In  my  school-days  we 
often  picnicked  there,  and  we  dreamed  many 
dreams  and  saw  many  visions  as  we  sat  in 
the  noon-hour  and  talked  in  girl  fashion 
of  the  future,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
church. 

The  principals  of  our  school  were  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Paul  Abadie.  There  were  a 
number  of  assistant  teachers.  Those  whom 
I  remember  best  were  the  Reverend  Charles 
Reynolds  who  taught  mathematics,  the 
Reverend  John  B.  Finlay  who  had  classes  in 
Latin,  Greek  and  English,  and  Madame  her 
self  who  was  a  very  distinguished  teacher 
with  a  gift  for  illuminating  whatever  we  did 
not  understand.  Monsieur  took  the  entire 
charge  of  the  classes  in  French,  and  of  him  I 
shall  speak  later.  There  were  other  assist 
ants, — a  gifted  young  man  who  came  on 
certain  days  and  conducted  certain  classes  of 
the  older  girls,  and  one  or  two  extremely 
pretty  young  women  whose  work  was  in  the 
primary  grades.  The  young  man  referred  to 
was,  we  understood,  a  student  in  a  theolog 
ical  seminary  who  was  preparing  to  become  a 
missionary.  We  were  interested  in  him  be 
cause  of  this  'consecration  on  his  part,  and 
after  school-days  we  followed  his  career  with 


A  SCHOOLGIRL  IN  THE  FIFTIES     115 

affectionate  thought  when  he  went  to  a  for 
eign  land  where  he  spent  his  life. 

I  have  a  vivid  picture  in  my  mind  of  one 
of  the  pretty  girl-teachers  who  had  wavy 
hair,  with  a  tendency  to  curl,  and  who  used 
to  wear  slippers  with  large  buckles  and  very 
high  heels.  I  can  hear  the  little  click  of 
those  heels  on  the  floor  as  I  write.  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her,  but  I  fancied  that 
she  looked  like  a  French  Marchioness,  a 
personage  to  whom  in  reality  she  bore  no 
resemblance. 

Our  work  in  English  was  not  to  be  de 
spised.  We  studied  from  cover  to  cover, 
digested  and  assimilated  the  English  Gram 
mar  of  Goold  Brown.  I  have  examined 
numerous  text-books  since  I  bade  good-bye 
to  this  compendium  of  compact  instruction, 
and  have  still  to  see  the  book  that  surpasses 
it  in  force,  brevity  and  lucidity.  Its  arrange 
ment  was  symmetrical,  its  rules  were  clear 
and  terse,  fastening  themselves  in  the  memory 
like  nails  in  a  sure  place,  and  the  notes  and 
exceptions  were  worth  studying  and  well 
taken.  This  grammar  was  peculiarly  rich  in 
references  to  literature,  in  quotations  from  the 
best  authors  and  in  examples  that  verified  its 
statements.  We  were  required  literally  to 


116  FEOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

learn  the  book  by  heart,  and  in  recitation  re 
peated  it  word  for  word. 

In  parsing,  a  daily  exercise,  we  went  con 
scientiously  through  Pope's  "  Essay  on  Man," 
Thomson's  "  Seasons,"  Cowper's  "  Task  "  and 
Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost."  I  had  already 
parsed  through  Thomson  and  Cowper  at  my 
earlier  school,  but  once  launched  on  Milton's 
splendid  sea,  sails  were  set  and  vessels  started 
for  a  wider  voyage  and  richer  freight.  To 
have  parsed  through  Milton  with  Dr.  Finlay 
in  the  chair  was  to  have  received  a  new 
equipment  in  the  handling  of  beautiful  Eng 
lish,  and  a  new  introduction  to  intellectual 
culture.  The  method  was  the  reading  of  a 
passage  which  any  young  lady  in  the  class 
might  be  called  upon  to  do,  while  a  class 
mate  would  next  be  requested  to  give  an 
analysis  of  the  text,  to  state  which  clauses 
were  contributory  and  which  independent, 
while  in  effect  the  entire  passage  was  sub 
mitted  to  a  winnowing  and  sifting  process 
that  left  it  forever  impressed  on  the  mind. 

Dr.  Finlay  was  a  Presbyterian  minister 
from  Belfast,  Ireland.  He  was  pastor  of  a 
church,  but  congregation  and  salary  were 
small,  and  he  had  time  and  desire  to  act  as 
a  professor  in  our  school.  A  graduate  of 


Dublin  University  with  a  later  degree  from 
Heidelberg,  he  was  a  man  of  very  remarkable 
attainments  and  of  almost  unlimited  reading. 
His  study  of  history  had  been  profound  and 
the  wealth  of  his  knowledge  was  freely  spent 
in  our  behalf.  Of  an  uncommon  height  and 
leanness,  with  a  homely  but  keenly  intellectual 
face  and  an  extremely  abrupt  manner,  with 
a  temper  that  flamed  at  a  touch,  he  was  not 
so  great  a  favourite  with  the  girls  as  he  might 
have  been  had  they  appreciated  their  privi 
leges  in  enjoying  his  instruction.  In  after 
years  his  pupils  knew  how  much  they  were 
indebted  to  him  for  accuracy  and  for  acquir 
ing  familiarity  with  tools. 

He  taught  us  to  depend  on  ourselves,  to 
use  reference  books  and  lexicons  and  to  go  to 
the  sources  and  the  springs  of  literature.  It 
was  fine  to  hear  him  read  a  poem  or  a  bit 
from  an  author  he  loved,  and  although  it 
was  sometimes  a  trial  to  undergo  the  severity 
of  his  criticism  when  essays  and  exercises 
were  not  what  he  expected  and  exacted,  yet 
the  fruit  of  such  teaching  was  a  permanent 
advantage.  He  always  addressed  his  class 
as  "  young  ladies,"  never  omitting  the  for 
mality  of  Miss  to  the  individual,  treating 
each  in  a  manner  of  detachment  a  little  diffi- 


118  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

cult  to  explain,  while  scrupulously  deferring 
to  us  as  "  young  ladies,"  that  phrase  being 
universal  then.  He  taught  us  precisely  as  he 
would  have  taught  our  brothers,  and  had  a 
way  of  coming  down  upon  a  culprit  who 
had  done  badly  when  she  might  have  done 
well,  with  the  sternness  of  an  offended  judge. 

We  studied  history  on  a  philosophical 
basis,  and  were  obliged  to  write  papers  on 
the  leading  characters  in  each  period,  while 
we  ascertained  what  influences  moulded 
them  and  by  what  steps  they  came  to  power. 
We  were  familiar  with  ancient  history,  As 
syria,  Babylon,  Greece  and  Rome,  and  we 
discovered  that  modern  lands  and  modern 
jurisprudence  have  been  shaped  by  and  de 
veloped  from  the  long  story  of  the  past.  Our 
work  was  not  made  easy  for  us,  but  it  was 
intensely  interesting,  and  we  learned  what 
none  of  us  have  forgotten,  how  to  study  and 
where  to  go  for  information. 

Much  stress  was  laid  on  correct  spelling. 
Carelessness  in  this  regard  was  considered 
shameful.  Credit  marks  were  multiplied  if 
the  writing  handed  in  was  fair  and  legible. 
One  or  two  of  my  old  schoolmates  write  to 
me  in  a  hand  so  exquisitely  beautiful  and  so 
easy  to  read  that  it  is  a  distinction.  The  day 


A  SCHOOLGIRL  IN  THE  FIFTIES     119 

had  not  then  dawned  when  it  was  thought  a 
possible  elegance  in  a  young  woman  to  send 
her  friends  a  scrawl  that  would  disgrace  a 
house-maid. 

With  the  mathematical  teacher  I  had  little 
to  do.  He  gave  me  up  in  despair,  as  did 
every  one  else  who  tried  to  drag  me  vi  et  armis 
beyond  simple  fractions.  The  whole  field  of 
arithmetic,  the  mysteries  of  algebra,  the  sub 
tleties  and  intricacies  of  geometry  were  none 
of  them  for  me.  I  long  blushed  at  the  odium 
of  this  confession,  but  I  have  been  consoled  in 
the  discovery  that  Christina  Rossetti,  a  poet 
whose  garment's  hem  I  reverence,  had  a 
similar  obtuseness  in  her  childhood.  I  cared 
little  for  astronomy,  but  botany  was  a  great 
delight.  The  stars  were  too  far  away,  the 
flowers  were  at  my  feet.  In  middle  life  I 
took  up  with  enthusiasm  the  study  of  the 
planets,  and  learned  to  watch  with  a  great 
gladness  the  march  of  the  constellations  and 
the  splendour  of  the  golden  lights  burning 
in  the  sky,  so  steadfast,  so  ordered,  so  un 
touched  in  their  vast  spheres  by  the  little 
disturbances  and  turmoils  below. 

Dr.  Finlay  was  our  instructor  in  Latin 
and  Greek.  I  never  made  much  progress  in 
the  latter,  not  getting  farther  than  the  Greek 


120  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

of  the  New  Testament.  In  Latin  we  cov 
ered  as  much  ground  as  the  girls  do  in  col 
lege  to-day.  French,  being  the  language  of 
the  school  and  pervading  its  atmosphere,  was 
taught  as  if  it  were  a  religion.  When  the 
annual  examinations  were  in  progress  we 
were  at  concert  pitch.  Gold  medals  were 
offered  for  excellence  in  history,  mathematics 
and  languages.  Books  were  also  bestowed 
as  premiums.  We  had  an  examining  board 
composed  of  the  clergymen  of  our  part  of 
Brooklyn,  and  as  our  examinations  were 
both  oral  and  written  and  were  conducted 
in  the  presence  of  these  gentlemen,  they 
meant  for  us  the  high-water  mark  of  the 
year. 

At  the  close  of  the  summer  term  annually 
we  had  a  public  reception  and  entertain 
ment.  Dressed  in  white,  our  hair  in  braids 
or  curls,  we  were  seated  together  in  one  of 
the  churches  if,  at  the  time,  the  school  as 
sembly  room  was  thought  too  small  to  accom 
modate  the  audience.  The  graduating  class 
presented  essays,  there  was  a  musical  pro 
gramme,  and  addresses  were  given  by  emi 
nent  educators  or  by  the  pastors  in  the 
vicinity.  Flowers  were  always  given  to  the 
graduates,  and  a  popular  girl  would  be  laden 


A  SCHOOLGIRL  IN  THE  FIFTIES     121 

with  spoils  at  the  close  of  the  evening.  It 
was  all  ceremonious  and  old-fashioned  and 
sweet. 

As  I  have  again  and  again  been  present  at 
commencement  exercises  in  schools  and  col 
leges  I  have  thought  how  history  repeats 
itself.  The  June  fields  this  summer  will  be 
covered  with  a  waving  sheet  of  cloth  of  gold, 
the  daisies  will  ripple  in  the  sunshine  and 
break  in  the  wind  like  the  foam  of  the  sea. 
Last  year  there  were  daisies  and  there  were 
daisies  fifty  years  ago.  There  will  be  daisies, 
please  God,  as  long  as  the  world  lasts,  and  in 
the  summer-land  of  girlhood  the  beautiful 
succession  will  be  the  same.  From  century 
to  century  youth  steps  blithely  forward  and 
occupies  the  centre  of  the  stage.  In  details 
commencements  vary,  but  those  I  may  at 
tend  this  year  will  not  be  very  unlike  the 
one  in  which  I  was  a  graduate  in  the  long 
ago. 

One  difference  appears  rather  striking  to 
me  in  the  retrospect.  We  girls  were  younger 
for  our  age  'than  our  successors  are.  We 
lived  more  intensely  in  the  moment  and 
thought  less  about  the  future  than  the  girls 
of  the  twentieth  century.  In  the  early  fifties 
girls  were  not  as  a  rule  anticipating  the 


122  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

necessity  of  self-support.  The  avenues  for 
the  employment  of  women  were  few  and 
well  defined.  A  man  trained  his  sons  for 
business  or  a  profession,  but  expected  that 
his  daughters  after  leaving  school  would 
help  their  mother  at  home  until  the  time  of 
their  marriage.  It  was  taken  for  granted 
that  most  girls  would  marry.  At  that  period 
a  girl  was  compassionated  if  she  had  no  pros 
pect  of  marriage  at  twenty-five.  Many  girls 
married  at  eighteen.  Perhaps  in  consequence 
of  the  condition  of  things  schoolgirls  did  their 
work  and  took  their  honours  without  much 
thought,  if  any,  of  earning  money  later  on. 
They  were  not  troubled  about  what  they  were 
going  to  be.  The  period  of  childhood  lasted 
longer,  and  there  was  a  shorter  interval  be 
tween  childhood  and  maturity  than  is  the 
portion  of  present-day  girlhood. 


X 

MY  FRENCH  PROFESSOR 

IMAGINE,  if  you  can,  a  man  of  medium 
height,  dark,  impetuous,  alert  and  em 
phatic.  Paul  Abadie  had  been  in  the 
French  Army  and  had  a  soldierly  bearing. 
He  spoke  English  fluently  and  correctly,  but 
preferred  his  native  tongue  and  used  English 
only  when  obliged  to  do  so  by  reasons  of  con 
venience  or  politeness.  He  was  much  more 
indulgent  to  the  girls  than  Madame  permitted 
herself  to  be,  and  those  who  wished  favours, 
excuses  or  half  holidays  were  careful  to  con 
sult  him,  and  commit  him  to  a  pledge  on 
their  side  before  they  interviewed  Madame 
who  was  the  real  head  of  the  school. 

We  all  understood  that  Monsieur  Abadie, 
while  a  man  of  culture  and  an  excellent  in 
structor,  was  in  many  ways  more  of  a  child 
than  his  pupils.  He  was  a  quick,  fiery  sort 
of  man,  impulsive  in  speech,  fond  of  fun  and 
an  ardent  patriot.  Loving  his  own  country 
with  entire  devotion,  he  had  transferred  his 
allegiance  to  ours,  and  he  never  tired  of 

123 


FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

praising  the  Republic  and  of  enlarging  upon 
the  possibilities  of  its  future.  Yet  he  never 
lost  completely  the  air  of  an  exile.  In  our 
romantic  little  hearts  we  used  to  fancy  that 
he  was  homesick,  and  we  built  castles  in  the 
air  in  which  we  sent  him  rejoicing  back 
across  the  ocean  to  find  his  own  home  in 
vine-clad  France  with  his  practical  American 
wife  to  keep  him  company  and  manage  his 
affairs.  Once  a  tall,  slender  young  nephew 
of  his,  full  of  Parisian  airs  and  graces,  came 
to  make  his  uncle  a  visit,  and  we  girls  greatly 
admired  the  lad  and  hoped  he  would  remain 
to  brighten  up  the  lives  of  his  kinsfolk. 
Charles,  however,  stayed  only  a  short  while 
and  then  disappeared  from  our  view. 

Paul  Abadie  had  a  good  share  of  the  vanity 
of  his  nation,  and  prided  himself  on  being  an 
original  genius.  He  liked  to  write  verse, 
especially  of  an  elegiac  quality  and  form, 
varying  it  with  lyrics  of  congratulation  on 
occasion.  If  a  friend  had  a  wedding  she  re 
ceived  from  him  a  poem  written  in  her 
honour  and  copied  in  beautiful  script.  If  a 
death  occurred  in  the  circle  of  his  acquaint 
ance  he  immediately  dropped  into  verse  and 
sent  a  poetical  effusion  to  the  survivors  of 
the  deceased.  After  a  while  he  accidentally 


MY  FRENCH  PROFESSOR  125 

learned  to  his  chagrin  that  his  poetry  was  not 
understood  by  its  recipients,  many  of  them 
reading  no  French  and  not  caring  to  ask  for 
a  translation.  I  well  remember  the  day 
when  this  sad  truth  made  itself  evident  to 
my  professor's  comprehension.  He  had  a 
trick  of  vehement  gesture,  and  although 
nearly  bald,  would  run  his  ringers  wildly 
through  the  thin  hair  that  had  once  been  a 
waving  shock.  "  But  what  shall  I  do,  Mar 
guerite?"  he  questioned  me,  sitting  before 
him,  sympathetic  and  distressed,  yet  strug 
gling  to  hide  from  him  the  amusement  I 
would  have  been  ashamed  to  show.  In  those 
days  I  was  often  reproved  for  immoderate 
laughter,  and  this  may  be  one  reason  why  I 
never  want  to  check  the  mirth  of  girlhood 
when  it  bubbles  up  from  beneath  the  sur 
face  and  can  hardly  be  controlled.  One  is 
never  twice  in  the  early  teens,  and  the  effer 
vescence  and  high  spirits  of  a  girl  just  out  of 
short  frocks  are  as  cheerful  as  a  sunbeam. 

"  What  shall  I  do,  Marguerite  ?  "  the  dear 
soldier- teacher  repeated,  reading  a  note  that 
he  had  received  from  a  sincere,  but  tactless 
friend.  I  ventured  a  bit  of  counsel.  "  Why 
not  translate  your  poetry  into  English  ?  " 

"  But  no,  dear  child,  but  no,"  he  answered, 


126  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

shaking  his  head.  "  It  would  not  then  be 
poetry.  It  would  lack  the  grace,  the  form, 
the  action,  the  melody.  I  cannot  turn  my 
French  into  English  and  keep  the  stanzas  in 
the  proper  shape." 

I  sat  still  and  thought,  and  as  impulsive 
then  as  I  have  been  all  my  life,  I  ventured  a 
proposition.  There  never  was  a  day  in  my 
girlhood  that  I  hesitated  to  undertake  any 
thing  that  offered  itself  to  me  as  a  thing 
worth  attempting,  and  though  I  often  failed, 
on  the  whole,  I  forged  ahead  rather  faster 
than  I  could  have  done  with  a  greater  cau 
tion.  "  Let  me  translate  your  verses,"  I  said, 
boldly.  "  I  can  make  verses  that  rhyme, 
and  no  one  will  know  that  you  did  not  do  it 
yourself." 

In  his  turn  he  hesitated,  but  though  he 
must  have  been  forty-five,  he  was  not  much 
more  than  fourteen  in  one  sort  of  maturity, 
and  the  thought  of  the  secret  was  something 
of  a  lure,  while  it  furnished  a  shield  for  his 
self-esteem.  "  We  shall  have  to  tell  my 
wife,"  he  said.  "Nothing  can  be  kept  secret 
from  her,  but  no  one  else  need  be  informed. 
It  will  be  good  practice  for  you  in  transla 
tion,"  he  added  with  perfect  truth,  and  indeed 
it  was. 


MY  FRENCH  PROFESSOR  127 

My  professor  had  an  exaggerated  admira 
tion  for  courage  of  every  description,  and  he 
poured  it  forth  without  stint  on  heroes  who 
too  often  receive  less  consideration  for  valour 
than  is  their  due.  The  heroism  of  the  fire 
men  in  the  course  of  their  duty  seemed  to 
him  as  worthy  of  celebration  as  that  of  sol 
diers  on  the  battle-field. 

There  lies  before  me  a  little  book  published 
in  1852  bearing  the  title  of  "  The  Fireman, 
and  Other  Poems."  The  cover  is  bright  red 
and  it  is  embellished  by  a  figure  of  a  fireman, 
with  helmet  and  trumpet,  a  ladder  lying  at 
his  feet.  Ornamental  devices  surround  this 
central  figure,  and  the  book  is  gilt-edge.  In 
the  one  hundred  and  thirty  pages  there  are 
seventy-two  poems  of  varying  length,  and  in 
a  modest  preface  disarming  criticism  the 
author  begs  indulgence  for  the  style  in  which 
he  has  set  down  his  impressions  of  this  land 
of  equality.  He  calls  his  verses  ephemeral 
waifs  floating  over  the  sea  of  literature. 
They  are  indeed  commonplace,  but  their  in 
tention  is  good  and  the  sentiment  invariably 
pure.  The  leading  lyric  celebrates  the  vir 
tues  of  the  fireman,  and  in  a  picturesque 
way  describes  an  alarm  of  fire  on  a  still  night, 
the  peril  and  terror  of  householders,  and  the 


128  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

arrival  of  the  rescuers  on  the  scene.  Other 
poems  are  personal  in  their  character,  or  are 
written  for  occasions.  What  pleasure  I  had, 
a  girl  of  fourteen,  in  rendering  into  English 
these  effusions  of  the  childlike,  simple- 
hearted  Frenchman. 

Our  classes  in  French  were  eagerly  antic 
ipated.  We  never  knew  beforehand  in  pre 
cisely  what  mood  we  would  find  the  professor. 
There  were  days  when  he  was  reticent, 
gloomy  and  disinclined  to  conversation.  At 
such  times  the  hour  was  devoted  to  exercises 
in  dictation  and  to  recitations  of  irregular 
verbs  and  efforts  in  construction.  If  we 
balked  at  an  idiom  or  were  conspicuously 
careless  in  pronunciation,  or  otherwise  blun 
dered,  the  professor  grew  grave  and  dis 
couraged.  I  have  known  him  to  close  the 
book  and  dismiss  the  class  with  a  mournful 
wave  of  the  hand  and  a  word  or  two  signify 
ing  that  our  depths  of  stupidity  were  beyond 
his  power  to  fathom.  Once  in  a  while  he 
would  walk  out  and  leave  the  class  sitting 
uncertain  what  to  do.  His  disapproval  was 
evident  enough,  but  the  hour  was  still  on  and 
we  had  no  choice  except  to  remain  seated. 
Usually  Madame  would  come  in,  take  the 
book  and  finish  the  lesson.  It  was  on  days 


MY  FRENCH  PROFESSOR  129 

when  we  had  a  good  deal  of  conversation 
flashing  back  and  forth  like  the  old  game  of 
battledore  and  shuttlecock  that  our  lessons 
were  most  successful. 

In  one  way  and  another  we  managed  to  ac 
quire  a  considerable  acquaintance  with  the 
beautiful  language  of  France,  and  we  made 
brief  excursions  into  her  literature.  The 
style  of  teaching  was  erratic,  but  the  atmos 
phere  enveloped  us  and  the  densest  girl  in 
our  number  was  able  to  learn  something, 
while  those  who  were  quick  and  receptive 
learned  a  great  deal.  Our  accent  was  good 
and  we  learned  how  to  discriminate  between 
the  cultivated  speech  of  Paris  and  the  dialect 
of  the  peasantry  or  the  provinces,  when  we 
reached  the  time  for  practical  tests. 

We  girls  were  like  others  in  our  youthful 
indifference  to  conditions  below  the  surface. 
In  after  years  we  knew  that  our  French  pro 
fessor  had  often  been  a  martyr  to  pain  and 
had  been  long  a  sufferer  from  an  obscure 
malady  of  which  he  finally  died.  The  last 
year  of  his  life  was  spent  in  invalidism,  and 
he  died  in  a  hospital  after  a  critical  operation. 
Surgery  had  not  made  the  advances  in  the 
fifties  that  are  familiar  to  us,  nor  were  opera 
tions  the  ordinary  affairs  that  they  have  be- 


130  FEOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

come.  Any  one  who  submitted  to  a  critical 
operation  at  that  time  was  looked  upon  by 
friends  as  unusually  brave.  The  knife  was 
the  extreme  resort,  not  the  beneficent  agent 
that  it  has  become  in  the  hands  of  the  skill 
ful  surgeon.  The  percentage  of  fatal  cases 
was  much  larger  then  than  now,  and  there 
was  resignation  to  the  worst  in  the  minds  of 
every  one  concerned  when  an  operation  was 
decided  upon. 

Our  professor  took  his  fighting  chance  with 
the  fortitude  to  be  expected  from  one  who  had 
fought  under  the  flag  of  his  country.  He 
died  serenely  in  the  Protestant  faith  to  which 
he  had  always  adhered.  I  have  never 
thought  of  him  as  devout,  although  no  irrev 
erence  marked  his  utterances  public  or  pri 
vate.  He  opened  school  each  morning  by 
reading  prayers  in  French,  and  he  undoubt 
edly  had  a  quiet  acceptance  of  the  will  of  his 
heavenly  Father  in  every  event  of  life.  The 
school,  however,  was  wholly  different  from 
the  earlier  one  of  which  I  have  spoken.  It 
was  secular  through  and  through.  There  was 
entire  and  conscientious  performance  of  duty 
on  the  part  of  every  teacher,  and  the  stand 
ards  of  excellence  in  the  work  of  the  pupils 
were  not  lowered  by  favouritism,  nor  was 


MY  FRENCH  PROFESSOR  131 

there  any  slurring  or  shirking  tolerated  in  the 
school.  If  there  was  a  lack  it  was  what  I  have 
implied.  The  perfume  of  devout  piety  that 
lingers  in  memory  like  a  waft  of  rose-leaves  or 
lavender  when  I  think  of  my  days  in  Pas- 
saic  Seminary  is  wanting  when  I  am  look 
ing  at  the  later  school.  Good  manners  were 
exacted,  and  an  infraction  of  politeness  was 
a  breach  of  the  higher  morality,  yet  ethically 
we  were  not  in  every  particular  what  we 
should  have  been. 

I  received  and  accepted  without  an  in 
stant's  hesitation  all  sorts  of  assistance  in  the 
mathematics  that  I  did  not  understand,  and 
in  return  I  not  infrequently  wrote  in  entirely 
different  styles  the  compositions  of  half  my 
classmates.  Neither  they  nor  I  gave  a 
thought  to  the  irregularity  of  these  pro 
ceedings,  and  as  no  one  suspected  us  we 
were  not  questioned.  Our  sense  of  honour 
was  a  little  blunted,  and  this  happened 
oftener  in  the  recitation  room  of  our 
French  professor  than  when  we  sat  before 
the  keen  and  profoundly  intellectual  man 
who  taught  us  English.  He  was  North  of 
Ireland  to  the  core,  and  any  one  who  knows 
that  stock  knows  that  it  stands  for  truth 
and  faith  through  every  circumstance. 


132  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

After  the  death  of  Professor  Abadie  the 
school  was  disbanded.  Twice  in  later  years 
it  has  been  my  happy  privilege  to  meet 
Madame  who  is  still  living  at  a  great  age. 
Not  very  long  ago  I  received  a  letter  from 
her  written  in  the  same  beautiful  hand  that 
characterized  her  in  her  prime,  and  ex 
pressed  with  the  gentle  formality  that  was 
the  graceful  accomplishment  of  well-bred 
women  in  her  youth. 

The  surviving  graduates  of  that  French 
and  English  school  are  scattered  far  and  wide. 
Most  of  the  girls  married  early,  lived  happily 
and  achieved  success  in  the  profession  of 
home-maker.  Several  of  the  loveliest  of  our 
number  died  early.  When  at  intervals  those 
of  us  who  are  left  meet  in  one  another's 
houses,  we  are  conscious  of  so  blithe  a  pulse, 
so  quick  a  thrill  that  it  is  hard  for  us  to 
accept  the  strange  fact  that  we  are  grand 
mothers,  and  that  the  roseate  days  of  youth 
belong  to  the  past.  It  is  our  natural  impulse 
to  say  to  one  another,  if  there  are  two  or  three 
of  us,  "  Come,  girls,"  just  as  we  used  to,  to 
the  amusement  of  the  young  folk,  who  per 
ceive  the  anachronism  between  girlhood  and 
white  hair. 

In  looking  through  the  little  red  book, 


MY  FRENCH  PROFESSOR  133 

I  find  the  stanzas  addressed  to  the  fireman 
too  antiquated  for  quotation,  and  most  of 
the  congratulatory  and  elegiac  poems  are  the 
same.  As  a  specimen  of  my  professor's  love 
for  nature  and  for  his  mother  I  give  two  ex 
tracts.  His  work  was  as  literally  rendered 
as  it  was  possible  to  do. 

NIGHT  AFTER  A  STORM 

The  stars  illume  the  mountain  tops, 

And  from  their  giddy  height 
Pour  down  upon  the  boundless  fields, 

A  soft  and  rosy  light. 

The  wind  that  moaneth  through  the  trees, 

Hath  a  sweet  sound  to  me, 
A  voice  of  music  in  the  air, 

A  heaven-born  melody. 

The  perfume  of  a  thousand  flowers 

Up  to  the  heavens  arise, 
And  mingling  with  the  morn's  soft  rays, 

Sail  through  the  azure  skies. 

A  thousand  dew-drops  clear  and  bright 

Lie  in  each  grassy  bed, 
And  bending  'neath  the  shining  weight, 

The  violet  lifts  its  head. 

From  all  on  earth — the  trees — the  flowers, 

From  all  that  God  has  given, 
Come  thankful  songs  of  joy  and  praise, 

And  gratitude  to  heaven. 


134  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

SONG— WHAT  I  LOVE 

I  love  the  swelling  song  of  birds, 

Amid  the  forest  trees, 
The  soft  and  perfumed  breath  of  morn, 

The  sighing  evening  breeze. 
I  love  calm  nature's  soft  repose 
At  twilight  hour,  at  day's  sweet  close. 

I  love  the  rosy,  smiling  sun, 

I  love  each  golden  ray, 
I  love  each  thing  it  shines  npon, 

The  lark  whose  joyous  lay 
Rings  out  upon  the  clear  calm  air, 
The  waving  trees,  and  all  things  fair. 

I  love  the  dark  and  gloomy  night, 

I  love  its  sombre  hue  ; 
To  me  it  seems  as  fair  and  bright, 

And  pure  as  Heaven's  own  blue. 
And  when  thy  moon  pours  down  her  light, 
How  beautiful  thou  art — oh,  night ! 

I  love  to  think  of  her  who  watched 

With  her  soft  eyes  so  mild, 
With  all  a  mother's  ceaseless  care 

The  footsteps  of  her  child. 
O !  would  that  thro'  life's  gathering  storm, 
Might  gleam  again  that  angel  form. 


XI 

DREAMS  AND  FANCIES 

ALL  through  our  childhood  my  sister 
and  I  dwelt  in  a  fairy-land  of  our 
own.  In  my  girlhood  this  dream 
world  was  shared  by  a  single  alter  ego,  a 
friend  who  like  myself  could  at  will  step  out 
of  the  beaten  paths  of  daily  routine  into  an 
imaginary  realm  peopled  at  our  pleasure  by 
the  creations  of  our  fancy.  I  must  have  been 
fifteen  when  the  fanciful  entirely  gave  way 
to  the  actual,  and  I  wandered  no  more  in 
tropical  groves  and  gardens,  lingered  no 
longer  in  ancient  castles,  and  tarried  neither 
at  morning  nor  evening  in  beautiful  regions 
that  had  no  existence. 

My  sister's  name  was  Isabel,  and  during 
the  golden  years  of  childhood  we  had  one 
mind  and  heart  between  us.  Wherever 
one  went  there  went  the  other,  and  while 
each  had  her  own  special  allies  and  chums, 
none  of  these  entered  into  the  inner  circle 
behind  whose  barrier  we  lived  apart.  I  can 
not  remember  the  time  when  Belle  and  I  had 

135 


136  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

not  our  cabalistic  signs  and  tokens,  our  words 
that  were  spells  and  our  mystic  passes  and 
hand-clasps.  We  were  fortunate  enough  to 
have  a  great  mysterious  garret  that  furnished 
us  with  a  place  of  withdrawal  from  those 
about  us,  and  whether  the  sun  streamed  in 
the  front  windows  over  the  end  where  we 
kept  our  books,  dolls  and  other  treasures,  or 
the  rain  beat  on  the  roof  and  the  darkness 
gathered,  we  were  supremely  happy  there. 
We  ceased  to  bear  our  usual  names  when  we 
set  our  feet  on  the  attic  stairs.  We  had  other 
names  that  we  had  chosen  for  ourselves, 
names  that  had  for  us  a  great  dignity,  and 
our  garret  was  a  palace,  and  in  it  we  enacted 
a  drama  that  continually  changed  and  un 
folded  in  which  there  were  women  looking 
out  of  lofty  windows  to  watch  knights  riding 
in  armour  to  distant  fields  of  battle,  while  at 
times  the  medieval  castle  would  be  besieged 
and  we  would  encounter  perils  within  and 
fears  without. 

We  believed  in  the  fairies  and  were  never 
in  the  least  surprised  at  the  rustle  of  their 
garments  or  their  appearance  on  the  scene. 
Tiny  trolls  and  elves,  good  fairies  and  bad 
fairies,  queens  and  princesses,  highway  rob 
bers  and  bandit  chiefs  came  at  our  call  and 


DREAMS  AND  FANCIES  137 

dissolved  into  thin  mist  when  we  were  tired 
of  them,  during  the  swiftly  gliding  years 
when  we  were  simply  in  the  eyes  of  our  elders 
two  children  going  to  school. 

I  would  not  resign  for  any  pleasure  I  have 
enjoyed  in  later  days  the  exquisite  rose-tinted 
memory  of  that  life  of  dream  and  fancy.  At 
pleasure  we  were  clothed  upon  with  robes  of 
radiant  white,  and  wore  wreaths  upon  our 
hair,  and  satin  shoes  with  silver  buckles  on 
our  feet.  We  made  singularly  little  use  of 
visible  properties  in  our  childish  play-acting, 
although  there  was  an  oaken  chest  from 
which  we  now  and  then  drew  old-fashioned 
clothing  in  which  we  masqueraded. 

We  must  have  been  indisposed  to  take 
older  people  into  our  confidence,  for  no  one 
was  ever  told  anything  about  our  intercourse 
with  Lady  Clare  or  Griselda  or  Prince  Rupert 
or  any  of  the  cavaliers  and  dames,  the  gallants 
and  ladies  who  were  our  constant  associates 
when  we  were  alone.  I  wearied  first  of  the 
dream  life,  and  it  began  to  lose  its  charm  for 
me  about  the  time  that  I  crossed  the  boundary 
line  of  the  teens,  although  I  did  not  wholly 
leave  the  enchanted  borders  until  I  was  a 
little  older.  My  sister,  being  younger,  felt 
bereft  and  solitary  when  I  ceased  to  be  ab- 


138  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

sorbed  in  the  interest  that  had  hitherto  be 
longed  to  us  both. 

A  slightly  different  sort  of  dream-life  was 
that  in  which  my  schoolmate,  Anna  Ran 
dolph,  had  as  much  to  do  as  I.  We  would 
take  long  walks  together,  planning  our  future 
and  adorning  it  with  everything  desirable 
that  vast  wealth  and  splendid  opportunities 
could  secure.  I  said  in  the  last  chapter  that 
girls  used  to  remain  young  longer  than  they 
do  in  these  days  of  a  forcing  process.  Cer 
tainly  it  was  strange  that  two  young  girls, 
each  fond  of  study,  each  eager  to  shine  in  her 
department,  and  each  regarded  as  a  leader  by 
her  companions,  should  walk  and  talk  day 
by  day,  so  engrossed  by  schemes  that  could 
have  had  no  foundation,  that  twilight  would 
gather  before  they  knew  that  the  sun  was 
going  down.  We  would  write  books  that 
should  bring  us  world-wide  fame,  we  would 
travel  under  every  sky  on  the  globe ;  we 
would  walk  through  innumerable  picture 
galleries  and  bring  home  the  pictures  we 
liked  best ;  we  would  wear  gold  chains  and 
diamond  tiaras,  and  in  our  plans  we  had  the 
purse  of  Fortunatus  and  the  luck  of  Alladin's 
lamp.  The  foolish  little  pastime  did  us  no 
harm,  and  there  dawned  a  day  when  sud- 


DEEAMS  AND  FANCIES  139 

denly  for  no  reason  discoverable  we  both 
tired  of  our  pageantry  and  returned  to  prosaic 
duty  and  the  world  of  our  homes  and  school. 
Following  this  peculiar  dream-world  we 
entered  on  another  psychological  period.  It 
might  be  more  strictly  correct  should  I  say 
that  I  did.  I  remember  a  great  discontent 
with  my  youthful  appearance.  I  desired  to 
be  thought  much  older  than  I  was,  arranged 
my  hair  in  the  most  grown-up  style,  and 
deliberately  chose  an  unbecoming  dress  of 
dark  brown  instead  of  a  dainty  blue  one  for 
the  reason  that  the  brown  one  would  make 
me  look  older.  In  the  church  that  we  at 
tended  there  was  a  man  who  must  have  been 
in  the  later  twenties.  I  knew  nothing  of 
him  except  his  name,  but  he  was  tall,  fair- 
haired  and  blue-eyed,  and  I  thought  him 
like  a  Norse  god.  He  sometimes  took  part 
in  prayer-meeting,  and  I  loved  the  music 
of  his  voice.  He  was  entirely  unaware  of 
my  existence  and  was  engaged  to  be  married 
to  a  very  lovely  young  girl  who  taught  a 
Sunday-school  class  near  mine,  for  I  had  by 
this  time  arrived  at  the  eminence  of  teach 
ing  a  little  class  myself.  I  can  remember 
the  admiration  I  felt  for  the  man  whom  I 
had  selected  to  be  my  hero,  and  the  unspoken 


140  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

hope  I  had  that  I  might  one  day  know  him. 
I  used  to  dress  myself  on  Sundays  and  for 
the  mid-week  meeting  with  a  hidden  thought 
that  possibly  before  the  day  or  the  evening 
should  be  over  I  might  become  acquainted 
with  this  peerless  being.  A  day  arrived 
when  we  were  introduced,  but  he  was  evi 
dently  not  impressed  and  passed  me  by  with 
careless  courtesy.  When  I  heard  that  he 
was  to  be  married  I  felt  a  sense  of  grievance 
and  disappointment,  and  I  wondered  much 
how  any  one  so  gifted  and  kingly  could  con 
descend  to  accept  as  a  bride  a  diminutive 
person  who  had  in  my  judgment  little  to 
recommend  her. 

Girls  often  go  through  phases  of  this  kind. 
They  belong  to  the  mystery  of  awakening 
womanhood.  Two  or  three  years  later  Mr. 

and   Mrs.  became   my  friends.     By 

that  time  I  had  emerged  from  the  land  of 
the  dream  and  the  vision,  and  I  found  them 
sensible  and  cultivated  people,  in  no  way 
remarkable  except  for  kindness  and  good 
ness.  The  Norse  god  wholly  disappeared, 
and  the  plain,  pushing  man  of  business  took 
his  place,  while  I  learned  to  regard  him  as 
most  fortunate  in  having  persuaded  the  most 
winsome  of  women  to  be  his  wife. 


DREAMS  AND  FANCIES  141 

A  poem  written  years  after  had  its  tiny 
germ  in  the  old  oak  chest.     I  give  it  here. 

"ELIZABETH,  AGED  NINE" 

Out  of  the  way  in  a  corner 

Of  our  dear  old  attic  room, 
Where  bunches  of  herbs  from  the  hillside 

Shake  ever  a  faint  perfume, 
An  oaken  chest  is  standing  — 

With  hasp  and  padlock  and  key  — 
Strong  as  the  hands  that  made  it 

On  the  other  side  of  the  sea. 

When  the  winter  days  are  dreary, 

And  we're  out  of  heart  with  life, 
Of  its  crowding  cares  are  weary 

And  sick  of  its  restless  strife, 
We  take  a  lesson  in  patience 

From  the  attic  corner  dim, 
Where  the  chest  holds  fast  its  treasure, 

A  warder  dark  and  grim  : 

Eobes  of  an  antique  fashion  — 

Linen  and  lace  and  silk  —  t 

That  time  has  tinted  with  saffron, 

Though  once  they  were  white  as  milk ; 
Wonderful  baby  garments, 

Broidered,  with  loving  care, 
By  fingers  that  felt  the  pleasure 

As  they  wrought  the  ruffles  rare. 

A  sword,  with  the  red  rust  on  it, 

That  flashed  in  the  battle-tide, 
When,  from  Lexington  to  Concord, 

Sorely  men's  hearts  were  tried  ; 
A  plumed  chapeau  and  a  buckle, 

And  many  a  relic  fine  ; 
And  all  by  itself  the  sampler, 

Framed  in  its  berry  and  vine. 


142  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Faded  the  square  of  canvas, 

Dim  is  the  silken  thread  — 
But  I  think  of  the  white  hands  dimpled, 

And  a  childish,  sunny  head  ; 
For  here  in  cross  and  tent  stitch, 

In  a  wreath  of  berry  and  vine, 
She  worked  it  a  hundred  years  ago, 

"Elizabeth,  aged  nine." 

In  and  out  in  the  sunshine 

The  little  needle  flashed, 
And  out  and  in  on  the  rainy  day 

When  the  sullen  drops  down  plashed, 
As  close  she  sat  by  her  mother  — 

The  little  Puritan  maid  — 
And  did  her  piece  on  the  sampler 

Each  morn  before  she  played. 

You  are  safe  in  the  crystal  heavens, 

"Elizabeth,  aged  nine," 
But  before  you  went  you  had  troubles, 

Sharper  than  any  of  mine. 
The  gold-brown  hair  with  sorrow 

Grew  white  as  drifted  snow, 
And  your  tears  fell  here,  slow-staining 

This  very  plumed  chapeau. 

When  you  put  it  away,  its  wearer 

Would  need  it  never  more, — 
By  a  sword-thrust  learning  the  secrets 

God  keeps  on  yonder  shore. 
But  you  wore  your  grief  like  glory ; 

Not  yours  to  yield  supine, 
Who  wrought  in  your  patient  childhood, 

"Elizabeth,  aged  nine." 

Out  of  the  way  in  a  corner, 
With  hasp  and  padlock  and  key, 

Stands  the  oaken  chest  of  my  fathers 
That  came  from  over  the  sea. 


DREAMS  AND  FANCIES  143 

The  hillside  herbs  above  it 

Shake  odours  faint  and  fine, 
And  here  on  its  lid  is  a  garland 
To  "Elizabeth,  aged  nine." 

For  love  is  of  the  immortal, 

And  patience  is  sublime, 
And  trouble's  a  thing  of  every  day, 

That  toucheth  every  time ; 
And  childhood  sweet  and  sunny, 

Or  womanly  truth  and  grace, 
In  the  dusk  of  the  way  light  torches, 

And  cheer  earth's  lowliest  place. 

Another  subtle  experience  might  be  chron 
icled  as  a  dual  personality.  When  I  was 
a  tiny  child  it  strangely  consoled  me  in  tran 
sient  troubles  to  think  of  a  tall  and  beauti 
ful  girl  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood. 
My  ideals  always  had  fair  hair  and  blue 
eyes,  and  I  never  remember  being  fond  in 
early  days  of  a  heroine  with  raven  hair  or  a 
hero  of  swarthy  complexion.  My  golden- 
haired  beauty  was  dressed  in  blue  or  pink 
and  she  had  a  low  little  rippling  laugh  like 
the  lilt  of  a  brook  in  the  spring.  "  There 
goes  a  pretty  girl,"  my  father  would  say, 
when  she  passed  the  door,  and  my  mother 
would  follow  her  with  an  approving  smile. 
I  used  to  say  to  myself,  if  I  had  a  childish 
trial,  "  Emily  is  not  unhappy,  Emily  has 
everything  she  wants,  Emily  can  go  on  a 


144  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

visit,  Emily  is  not  disappointed,"  and  in  a 
subtle,  unexplainable  way  the  cloudless  joy 
of  the  triumphant  Emily  made  up  for  my 
misfortunes.  I  could  bear  to  be  hurt  or 
scolded  or  misunderstood,  so  long  as  Emily 
was  the  admired  and  beloved  of  all. 

As  I  grew  up  I  learned  to  keep  intact  a 
second  self,  not  Emily  nor  another,  but  just 
my  own  replica,  who  walked  in  tranquil 
beauty,  serene  and  undisturbed  no  matter 
what  agitations  might  be  shaking  me.  This 
second  unsuspected  double  maintained  her 
place  unruffled  when  the  other  self  was  an 
noyed,  dismayed  or  possibly  remorseful.  I 
do  not  know  how  to  make  clear  to  the  reader, 
who  does  not  comprehend  it  without  words, 
the  secret  of  this  dual  personality,  but  it 
abides  with  me  still,  and  I  am  fain  to  think 
that  it  abides  with  many  of  us.  Here  we  sit 
toiling  over  columns  of  figures,  stitching  on 
the  sewing-machine,  patching  the  knees  of  a 
laddie's  trousers  and  giving  attention  to  the 
ordinary  affairs  of  an  ordinary  day.  We  are 
kneading  bread  in  the  kitchen,  or  kindling  a 
fire  on  the  hearth  ;  we  are  presiding  at  a 
breakfast  table  and  regretting  that  the  toast 
is  burnt  and  the  coffee  not  quite  clear,  and 
all  the  while  we  may  be  miles  away,  on  a 


DREAMS  AND  FANCIES  145 

ranch  with  a  dear  one,  on  a  ship  that  sails 
the  sea,  in  South  Africa  or  Japan,  the  part 
of  us  that  is  away  as  distinctly  another  self 
as  the  part  that  is  here.  We  do  not  need  to 
talk  in  the  jargon  of  the  day  about  astral 
bodies  or  psychic  phases  to  throw  light  on 
experiences  so  common,  for  the  truth  is  of 
every-day  occurrence  and  is  proved  in  our  own 
self-consciousness  that  we  are  as  frequently 
two  persons  as  one.  But  for  this  dual  per 
sonality  we  might  not  so  easily  go  unscathed 
through  the  conflicts  of  life,  so  serenely 
meet  rebuffs,  and  so  buoyantly  bear  reverses. 

As  a  girl  I  was  continually  in  the  habit,  so 
to  speak,  of  being  in  two  places  at  one  and 
the  same  time,  and  I  have  not  outgrown  the 
habit  with  the  years.  The  inner  self  can 
not  be  touched  or  flawed  by  the  stormy 
winds  of  life.  It  is  like  a  flower  behind  a 
thin  pane  of  glass  or  a  grain  within  the  husk. 
One  day  the  thin  crystal  may  break  or  the 
husk  may  fall  away,  and  the  inner  self,  the 
real  self,  with  no  hint  of  age,  no  scar,  no 
spot  or  stain,  will  go  onward,  thanks  to  the 
Friend  whose  love  has  never  slept,  into  the 
glory  and  peace  of  the  life  eternal. 

The  dark-eyed  Southern  girl,  who  was 
tenant  with  me  in  castles  in  Spain,  returned 


146  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

with  her  family  to  Virginia,  and  before  many 
years  had  passed  became  the  wife  of  a 
Presbyterian  minister.  During  the  Civil 
War  her  home  near  Richmond  was  the 
scene  of  much  perturbation  and  anxiety,  so 
close  to  the  storm-centre  of  the  Confederacy 
that  successive  parties  of  soldiers,  both  Union 
and  Confederate,  tramped  across  its  fields  and 
found  shelter  under  its  roof.  The  house 
hold  treasures  of  silver  and  jewelry  were 
buried  for  safe-keeping  in  a  grove  near  the 
house,  and  there  Anna  deposited  with  other 
souvenirs  a  picture  of  me  like  the  one  on  the 
cover  on  this  book.  She  was  the  daintiest, 
most  flower-like  of  girls  with  something  of 
the  saintly  devotion  of  a  cloistered  nun. 
When,  years  after  girlhood,  I  visited  her  in 
West  Virginia  in  a  little  manse  among  the 
mountains,  I  found  her  the  busy,  practical 
wife  and  mother,  with  advice  ever  ready  for 
those  who  sought  it,  while  every  line  of  her 
countenance  bore  witness  that  she  had  en 
dured  hardships  and  had  come  from  the 
struggle  of  life  splendidly  victorious. 

In  the  field  where  they  laboured,  the  min 
ister  and  herself  had  done  home  mission 
ary  work  all  their  lives.  The  manse  was 
simply  furnished,  with  no  superfluities,  but 


DKEAMS  AND  FANCIES  147 

the  study  was  amply  supplied  with  books,  the 
walls  from  ceiling  to  floor  hidden  by  volumes 
of  the  best  literature,  to  which  additions 
were  often  made. 

Of  my  friend's  children,  three  are  to-day 
in  the  medical  profession,  one  is  a  lawyer, 
another  an  editor,  and  all  are  honourably 
fulfilling  responsible  positions  in  life.  She 
and  her  husband  still  live  in  the  mountain- 
land  with  children  and  grandchildren  around 
them,  and  before  long  they  will  arrive  at  the 
mile-stone  of  their  golden  wedding.  I  am 
sure  if  I  questioned  her  to-day,  she  would 
tell  me  that  she  felt,  notwithstanding  the 
number  of  her  birthdays,  little  older  than 
when  she  and  I  strolled  together  and  had 
dreams  and  visions  in  the  shadow  of  Christ's 
Church  in  the  fields.  This,  too,  is  another 
proof  of  that  dual  personality  that  is  so  real 
and  so  baffling. 


XII 

THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF 

THE  year  1854  began  auspiciously 
and  its  first  day  was  one  of  gaiety 
and  good  cheer  in  our  home.  New 
Year's  Day  was  with  us  the  great  day  of  the 
twelvemonth,  surpassing  Christmas  in  the 
family  annals.  We  had  not  yet  wholly 
lost  an  intangible  feeling  that  paying  too 
much  honour  to  Christmas  was  making  a 
concession  to  the  Church  of  Rome,  and 
though  there  was  to  be  sure  an  exchange  of 
gifts  and  some  festivity  on  Christmas,  the 
whole-hearted  keeping  of  a  holiday  was  re 
served  for  the  first  of  January.  Then  we 
watched  with  eagerness  for  the  first  foot  over 
the  threshold,  and  all  day  long  in  accordance 
with  the  old  custom  of  Manhattan  callers 
came  and  went. 

A  table  was  sumptuously  spread,  and  each 
guest  was  invited  to  partake  of  refreshment 
from  noonday  when  the  calling  began,  until 
almost  midnight  when  it  ended.  There  was 
much  to  be  said  for  this  old  fashion  of  ex- 

148 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF  149 

changing  greetings  at  the  opening  of  a  new 
year,  and  there  was  a  flavour  of  real  sweet 
ness  in  the  meetings  of  friends  who  perhaps 
saw  one  another  seldom  and  cemented  their 
friendship  by  talks  of  auld  lang  syne  as  they 
wished  one  another  a  Happy  New  Year. 

My  sister  and  I  were  still  looked  upon  as 
children,  yet  we  had  our  own  share  in  the 
pleasure  of  the  New  Year,  and  in  the  even 
ing  of  this  particular  anniversary  we  had  a 
little  party  of  our  own.  The  second  of  Janu 
ary  used  to  be  called  Ladies'  Day,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  my  recollection  we  went  forth 
to  pay  formal  calls  on  its  afternoon.  We 
felt  most  important  when  we  indulged  in  this 
grown-up  occupation. 

The  holiday  once  over  we  settled  down  to 
our  usual  routine,  and  nothing  occurred  to 
make  one  day  different  from  another  until 
early  in  February  my  father  suddenly  died. 
There  had  been  no  warning,  no  apparent  phys 
ical  weakness  and  not  an  hour  of  illness.  He 
had  enjoyed,  as  he  always  did,  the  Sabbath 
day,  attending  church  morning  and  evening 
and  retiring  in  health,  not  even  tired.  Thus 
he  fell  asleep  and  was  translated,  for  his 
waking  was  in  heaven.  The  dismay  and 
consternation  that  fell  upon  us  when  we 


150  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

realized  that  he  was  no  more  are  beyond  my 
power  to  describe.  It  was  the  first  heavy 
shadow  that  darkened  my  life,  and  yet  it  was 
a  shadow  that  had  its  other  side  of  sunshine. 
We  had  no  doubt  of  immortality,  no  doubt 
that  the  dear  one  was  living  and  loving  still, 
and  no  doubt  that  we  should  meet  him  again. 
The  household  drew  very  close  together  in 
that  chill  February,  and  as  we  wore  our  deep 
mourning  we  felt  solitary  and  apart  and  were 
aware  that  life  had  grown  sombre  and  that 
inevitably  changes  of  one  or  another  kind 
would  come  to  pass. 

Grief,  though  profound,  does  not  very  long 
oppress  the  young.  They  are  too  near  the 
source  of  being,  have  too  much  vitality  and 
elasticity  to  continue  under  its  sway.  We 
were  helped  and  cheered  by  the  presence  in 
our  home  of  my  mother's  only  surviving 
brother  who  returned  with  us  from  my 
father's  funeral  and  never  again  left  us, 
so  long  as  he  lived.  Of  all  true-hearted, 
knightly,  self-forgetting  men,  he  remains  to 
me  the  type.  He  loved  my  mother  with  an 
absolute  devotion,  and  stood  by  her  in  her 
widowhood  with  a  fidelity  and  gentleness 
that  I  have  never  seen  equalled.  To  this 
day,  I  can  hardly  think  of  him  without  a 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF  151 

thrill  of  pride  and  a  sense  of  gratitude  for 
which  I  have  no  words.  "  A  brother  is  born 
for  adversity."  My  mother  realized  this  as 
she  was  relieved  of  every  possible  care,  and 
thenceforward  shielded  and  sheltered  during 
the  twenty-five  years  in  which  she  was  spared 
to  us. 

David  Chisholm  had  been  educated  for  the 
ministry,  the  intention  not  so  much  his  own 
as  that  of  his  grandfather,  David  Kirkaldy. 
He  was  a  man  of  broad  culture  and  wide 
reading,  of  inflexible  rectitude  and  rare  un 
selfishness.  Instead  of  entering  the  profession 
to  which  he  did  not  feel  that  he  was  divinely 
called,  he  gave  his  life  to  business.  He  was 
young  when  he  laid  aside  other  plans  and 
purposes,  and  without  a  hint  that  he  was 
sacrificing  any  hope,  came  to  stay  with  his 
sister  and  her  children.  It  was  not  until  in 
old  age  he  was  suddenly  summoned  to  the 
home-land  that  those  who  were  left  learned 
from  papers  in  his  desk  that  he  had  made  a 
large  personal  sacrifice  for  their  sakes.  They 
wished  it  had  been  otherwise,  and  wondered 
at  their  own  blindness.  Until  I  meet  him 
again  he  will  be  united  in  my  thought  of  all 
that  is  noble  and  fine  with  the  father  who 
was  the  idol  of  my  early  years. 


152  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Youth,  as  I  have  said,  cannot  be  crushed 
by  sorrow.  The  rebound  comes  quickly. 
Although  a  dear  face  may  be  missed  from 
the  table,  and  a  familiar  voice  be  silent, 
there  is  on  every  side  the  pressure  of  life 
and  hope.  The  future  beckons  when  we  are 
young.  It  was  my  first  real  introduction  to 
maturity  when  as  the  elder  daughter  I  was 
obliged  to  shield  my  mother  even  from  sym 
pathetic  callers  in  the  first  weeks  of  her 
anguish.  I  was  still  attending  school,  but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  looked  several  years 
older  in  my  mourning  dress  than  in  the 
colours  laid  aside.  Nevertheless,  a  great  sur 
prise  was  in  store  for  me,  when  one  day  a 
visitor  was  announced  who  particularly  asked 
if  he  might  see  me  alone.  The  man  was  in 
some  way  associated  with  my  school  life.  I 
vaguely  remember  what  he  had  taught,  but 
I  had  been  a  pupil  in  one  or  two  of  his 
classes.  He  had  drifted  into  our  home  in 
the  evening  during  that  autumn  and  winter, 
and  had  been  received  as  a  friend  of  the 
family.  What  were  my  amazement  and  em 
barrassment  when  confronted  without  a  hint 
of  preparation  with  my  first  offer  of  marriage. 
When  at  last  I  understood  it  I  must  have 
made  it  plain  to  my  friend  that  I  could  not 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF  153 

share  his  life.  He  went  away  not,  I  fancy, 
with  that  excess  of  disappointment  that  leads 
to  heartache,  his  comment  being  on  my  re 
fusal,  "  Well,  you  are  very  young,  but  it 
would  have  been  suitable,  and  I  did  think 
that  your  love  for  the  cause  of  missions 
would  have  made  you  willing  to  be  the  wife 
of  a  foreign  missionary."  In  less  than  three 
months  my  suitor  crossed  the  ocean  to  a 
foreign  field  where  he  was  eminently  suc 
cessful,  and  in  the  life  to  which  he  was  con 
secrated  he  had  a  comrade  by  his  side.  He 
had  not  met  her  on  the  day  when  he  bade 
good-bye  to  me,  but  love  does  not  always 
need  to  be  built  on  a  foundation  of  long 
acquaintance.  He  and  his  wife  are  not  liv 
ing  now,  and  no  one  reading  this  will  have 
a  clue  to  their  identity.  The  little  episode 
helped  to  make  me  still  more  grown  up  than 
I  had  been  before. 

"  What  kept  you  so  long  talking  with  Mr. 
Blank?"  said  my  mother.  "I  will  tell  you 
by  an*!  by,"  I  said,  "  when  we  are  alone." 
"He  showed  little  judgment,"  was  her  com 
ment  when  I  revealed  the  matter  to  her  in 
the  confidential  hour  before  bedtime. 

In  the  quiet  spring  days  after  my  father's 
death  I  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  writing,, 


154  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

I  preferred  to  write  with  an  atlas  or  portfolio 
in  my  lap,  and  would  sit  on  the  stairs  or 
beside  the  window  or  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
to  jot  down  couplets  and  quatrains,  or  copy 
from  memory  quotations  that  haunted  me. 
I  filled  numbers  of  little  blank  books  and 
scribbled  on  quantities  of  foolscap,  spending 
most  of  my  spare  time  in  writing  for  my 
own  satisfaction  reviews  of  the  books  I  was 
reading.  I  remember  writing  an  elaborate 
essay  on  the  life  and  work  of  David  Brain- 
erd,  whose  memoir  deeply  impressed  me.  A 
friend  who  happened  to  see  this  attempt  at 
book  reviewing  advised  me  to  keep  on  in 
that  line  but  gave  the  excellent  counsel  not 
to  offer  anything  for  publication  until  my 
hand  had  grown  stronger  and  my  skill 
greater.  He  said  to  me  in  substance,  "  You 
would  better  try  to  write  less  rather  than 
more,  and  you  will  form  your  style  best  by 
reading  the  great  masters  of  literature."  This 
advice  I  have  frequently  passed  on  to  young 
people  who  think  they  can  write.  I  have 
learned  that  it  is  as  well  to  guard  it  by  the 
addition  that  it  does  little  good  merely  to 
read  for  a  utilitarian  end,  and  no  good  what 
ever  to  read  what  one  neither  likes  nor 
understands. 


THE  FIEST  GREAT  GRIEF  155 

As  I  have  said,  I  read  all  that  I  could  get 
and  had  little  difficulty  in  understanding 
anything  that  appealed  to  me,  but  I  have 
often  seen  young  girls  and  older  women,  too, 
absorbed  in  a  painful  pursuit  of  culture  that 
has  borne  little  fruit.  The  novice  in  literary 
work  cannot  do  better  than  to  read  exhaust 
ively  along  the  lines  of  enjoyment,  not 
wasting  time  over  authors  who  bore  her. 
We  find  our  masters  and  teachers  after  a 
while,  and  each  period  naturally  has  its  fa 
vourites. 

Notwithstanding  my  friend's  counsel  I 
kept  on  writing,  but  I  had  not  then  any 
particular  ambition  to  see  myself  in  print. 
That  ambition  stirred  in  me  two  years  later. 

I  wrote  by  fits  and  starts,  sitting  on  the 
stairs,  as  I  have  said,  or  on  the  edge  of  my 
bed,  in  bits  of  time  not  otherwise  pre 
empted,  the  life-story  of  a  lovely  child  who 
had  been  often  in  our  home  and  who  was 
early  gathered  into  the  upper  fold.  I  con 
fided  to  no  one  my  intention  to  write  this 
little  life-story,  but  I  kept  on  until  I  had 
filled  about  one  hundred  pages  of  manu 
script.  I  wrote  on  foolscap  paper  tinted 
blue.  When  the  book,  for  such  I  meant  it 
to  be,  was  completed,  I  sent  it  with  a  little 


156  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

note,  still  keeping  my  secret  to  myself,  to 
the  Presbyterian  Board  of  Publication  in 
Philadelphia.  The  manuscript  may  have 
been  acknowledged,  but  I  seem  to  remember 
nothing  about  this. 

Months  passed,  six  or  eight,  and  one  day 
an  expressman  left  a  parcel  addressed  to  me 
at  the  door.  It  contained,  O  wonder  of  won 
ders,  twelve  copies  of  a  bound  book  entitled 
"  Little  Janey,"  and  the  postman  the  same 
day  brought  me  a  letter  in  which  was  a 
check  for  forty  dollars.  This  was  the  first 
money  my  pen  ever  earned,  and  I  trod  on 
air  and  knew  in  myself  the  unfolding  of 
wings.  The  surprise  and  delight  of  the 
family  were  as  great  as  mine,  and  we  had  an 
animated  discussion  as  to  what  should  be 
done  with  my  wealth.  Arguments  were  pre 
sented  in  favour  of  putting  the  money  in  the 
savings-bank,  of  spending  it  at  once,  of  in 
vesting  it  in  the  purchase  of  books,  and  I  as 
the  pleased  possessor  of  the  magic  slip  of  pa 
per  wavered  now  in  one  direction,  and  again 
in  another,  irresolute  as  to  my  decision.  To 
put  the  money  in  the  bank  was  much  too 
prosaic  a  proceeding,  yet  to  fritter  it  away 
on  trifles  or  even  to  spend  the  whole  of  it  on 
books  was  to  fly  in  the  face  of  the  public 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF  157 

opinion  of  the  combined  household.  Fi 
nally,  my  mother's  word  prevailed  with  me. 
"  It  is  yours  to  do  what  you  like  with,"  she 
said,  "  and  it  came  to  you  as  if  it  had 
dropped  from  the  sky.  You  cannot  call 
your  little  book  work,  for  really  writing  it 
was  just  like  play.  If  I  were  you  I  would 
spend  this  forty  dollars  in  buying  some 
silver  that  you  can  keep  and  always  look 
upon  as  the  first  fruit  of  your  talent."  This 
I  did.  Alas  for  the  transient  nature  of  the 
possession  thus  purchased.  I  had  the  silver 
for  perhaps  a  score  of  years,  and  then  it  was 
stolen  by  a  burglar,  and  never  recovered. 
A  time-worn  yellow  copy  of  "  Little  Janey  " 
is  on  a  book  shelf,  and  it  recalls  to  me  the 
keen  sweetness  of  my  first  draught  of  literary 
success. 

A  little  later  the  Board  of  Publication  sent 
me  a  commission, — one  hundred  pictures  for 
which  I  was  asked  to  write  one  hundred 
brief  juvenile  stories.  I  fulfilled  my  part  of 
the  contract  and  my  check  for  this  not  very 
difficult  task  was  larger  than  before.  This 
time  the  Board  sent  me  a  check  for  one 
hundred  dollars.  Even  now  I  did  not 
devote  myself  with  much  seriousness  to 
writing.  For  one  thing,  I  was  busy  in  other 


158  FEOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

directions.  I  was  studying  music  for  which 
I  had  no  aptitude  and  over  which  I  wasted 
much  precious  time.  Also  I  was  taking 
lessons  in  water  colours,  my  teacher,  an  ab 
rupt  and  candid  spinster,  openly  scoffing  at 
my  attempts  at  colour  and  composition. 

With  immense  self-confidence  I  attacked 
an  art  that  was  enlisting  the  attention  of 
many  of  my  girl  friends,  the  art  of  em 
broidery  on  satin.  This  would  not  be  worth 
mentioning  here,  but  for  a  reminiscence.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  easily  teach 
embroidery,  and  in  my  imagination  it  ap 
peared  desirable  to  have  about  me  a  group 
of  children  to  whom  I  could  impart  the 
knowledge  I  had  gained. 

That  I  to  whom  needle  craft  has  been  a 
lifelong  mystery  should  have  had  the  te 
merity  to  suppose  that  I  could  teach  artistic 
embroidery  looks,  at  this  distance,  amusing. 
I  had  acquired  the  theory  and  knew  how  the 
thing  was  done,  although  my  skill  in  the 
doing  would  not  have  made  me  a  prize  win 
ner  in  a  competition.  With  unshaken  be 
lief  in  my  own  ability  to  accomplish  what 
ever  I  undertook  I  wrote  notes  to  the 
mothers  in  the  neighbourhood  or  called 
upon  friends  and  I  soon  had  an  afternoon 


159 

class  of  interested  children  whose  perform 
ances  discredited  neither  themselves  nor  me. 
This  was  my  initiation  as  a  teacher. 

Out  of  my  embroidery  class  gradually 
grew  a  little  school  that  was  conducted  with 
gratifying  results  for  two  years.  Being  less 
than  eighteen  when  I  planned  it  and  under 
twenty  when  I  gave  it  into  other  hands,  I 
have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my  girlish 
enterprise.  My  pupils  were  of  various  ages, 
from  six  to  sixteen,  and  I  had  perhaps  thirty 
all  told.  I  taught  them  with  enthusiasm, 
and  I  had  one  or  two  assistants  who  took 
charge  of  the  studies  for  which  I  had  no 
taste.  The  school  had  its  entertainments  at 
stated  intervals,  inclusive  of  a  May-queen 
cantata  for  which  I  wrote  original  poems, 
and  which  a  musical  friend  conducted  for 
me,  and  of  a  Christmas  performance  of  some 
kind  which  went  off  to  every  one's  satisfac 
tion.  Everything  relating  to  this  little  school 
has  grown  hazy  and  indistinct,  for  it  was  very 
informal  and  much  like  little  schools  that  I 
later  saw  carried  forward  in  Southern  vil 
lages.  The  days  of  kindergartens  were  not 
yet,  so  little  children  were  taught  to  read 
and  write,  and  the  older  ones  were  prepared 
for  more  advanced  instruction.  I  had  pupils 


160  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

in  English  and  French  who  made  good  prog 
ress,  and  the  parlours  of  the  house  being 
given  up  to  me  during  school  hours,  the 
girls  sat  about  the  room  or  around  a  table, 
and  at  all  events  did  not  entirely  lose  their 
time.  When  school  was  over  for  the  day 
the  parlours  resumed  their  original  social  uses. 

This  part  of  my  girlhood  was  only  a  brief 
episode  that  came  to  an  end  in  the  June  of 
1858.  In  the  October  of  that  year  I  was 
married. 

My  husband,  George  Sangster,  was  a  native 
of  Aberdeen,  Scotland.  A  year  before  we 
met  I  attended  a  Sunday-school  convention 
at  which  he  was  one  of  the  speakers.  The 
exercises  had  been  prolonged  to  a  rather 
late  hour  and  every  one  was  tired  when  the 
last  speaker  stepped  to  the  front  of  the  plat 
form.  His  address  was  masterly,  terse  and 
eloquent,  with  no  little  originality  and 
humour.  I  had  always  loved  the  peculiar 
accent  of  Scotland,  accustomed  to  hearing  it 
as  I  had  been  all  my  life.  As  I  walked 
home  I  said  to  the  friends  who  were  with  me, 
"  the  man  who  came  last  redeemed  the  entire 
evening." 

When  we  met,  as  we  did,  in  the  subsequent 
year,  he  was  in  the  company  of  a  lifelong 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF  161 

friend  who  introduced  us  without  the  slight 
est  thought  that  we  would  be  more  than 
casual  acquaintances.  I  think  I  was  most 
attracted  to  the  man  who  was  to  become  my 
husband  because  he  seemed  very  desolate 
and  lonely.  His  little  daughters  in  black 
from  head  to  foot  for  their  mother  whose 
death  had  left  their  home  like  an  unsheltered 
nest,  tugged  at  once  at  my  heart-strings.  I 
know  now  that  the  maternal  element  has 
been  the  strongest  and  deepest  part  of  my 
nature,  and  that  it  was  the  desire  to  mother 
the  little  motherless  children  that  uncon 
sciously  drew  me  to  the  man  who  became  first 
my  lover  and  then  my  husband. 

We  were  married  in  1858.  Thus  far  I 
had  slipped  easily  along  without  acquiring 
the  least  practical  knowledge  of  domestic 
economy.  Whatever  else  I  had  learned,  I 
had  not  learned  to  cook  or  to  sew,  and  I 
started,  a  girl  of  twenty,  with  the  manage 
ment  of  a  home  and  the  care  of  two  little 
girls  under  five,  with  as  little  fear  of  failure 
and  as  much  certainty  of  success  as  if  I  had 
been  graduated  from  several  schools  of  house 
hold  science.  I  had  been  so  busy  in  my  own 
way,  and  my  mother  in  hers  had  been  so 
efficient  and  capable,  and  I  was  really  so 


162  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

young,  that  the  ordering,  catering  and  pre 
paring  of  meals  had  passed  me  by.  No  raw 
recruit  was  ever  less  fitted  to  step  out  of  the 
awkward  squad  into  the  ranks  of  the  thor 
oughly  drilled  and  disciplined  army  than  I. 

Of  course  I  made  a  few  mistakes.  I 
bought  too  much  or  too  little,  I  had  the 
usual  difficulty  in  procuring  adequate  help, 
and  my  maid  and  I  were  not  infrequently 
obliged  to  consult  one  another  and  admit  our 
common  ignorance  of  the  way  in  which 
something  should  be  done  or  left  undone. 
Nevertheless,  in  a  tolerably  brief  time  I  be 
came  a  not  unsuccessful  housekeeper. 

A  story  is  told  of  a  painter  to  whom  some 
one  came  with  a  tiresome  question  about  his 
work.  "  What  do  you  mix  your  colours 
with  ? "  said  the  amateur,  interrupting  the 
testy  artist. 

"  With  brains,  Sir,"  was  the  somewhat 
arrogant  reply. 

I  have  always  been  of  the  opinion  verified 
by  my  experience  that  any  intelligent  young 
woman  who  chooses  to  give  attention  to  the 
work  and  has  a  sufficient  motive  to  urge  her 
on,  may  learn  all  the  essentials  underlying 
good  housekeeping  in  six  weeks.  All  that 
she  needs  is  to  mix  her  efforts  with  brains. 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  GRIEF  163 

The  little  daughters  were  a  constant  joy. 
I  never  cared  to  be  called  their  stepmother, 
and  so  far  as  their  loving  adoption  by  my 
heart  of  hearts  was  concerned,  there  was  no 
step.  It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to-day  to 
take  care  of  two  little  children,  to  plan  their 
clothing,  superintend  their  play  and  their 
work  and  do  the  thousand  little  things  that 
mothers  do,  but  at  twenty  everything  was 
easy  and  nothing  hard.  When  in  1859  my 
child  was  born  and  the  little  girls  had  a 
brother,  the  cup  of  our  happiness  brimmed 
to  the  overflow. 


XIII 

HINTS  OF  THE  COMING  STORM 

POLITICALLY,  as  we  all  know,  now 
that  the  Civil  War  has  receded  into 
history,  the  states  were  in  a  condition 
of  ferment  during  the  decade  that  preceded 
1861.  We  are  sufficiently  remote  from  that 
era  of  bitterness  and  wrath  to  view  it  with 
judicial  eyes,  and  we  are  now  aware  that  an 
honest  difference  of  opinion  was  at  the  basis 
of  the  stubbornly  fought  contest  between 
North  and  South  during  four  tempestuous 
years.  The  men  of  the  South  believed  in  the 
right  of  each  state  to  its  own  autonomy,  and 
its  withdrawal  at  discretion  from  the  united 
body  of  states.  The  men  of  the  North  held 
firmly  to  the  conviction  that  while  each  state 
was  at  liberty  to  manage  its  own  affairs,  no 
state  was  free  to  break  from  the  federated 
Union.  At  the  core  of  the  trouble  was  sla 
very,  a  system  that  had  become  incorporated 
with  the  social  and  commercial  interests  of 
the  South,  and  which  the  North  regarded  with 
horror  and  aversion.  So  extreme  and  diver- 

164 


HINTS  OF  THE  COMING  STORM      165 

gent  were  opinions  on  both  sides  that  it  was 
impossible  for  the  people  of  either  section  to 
be  entirely  fair  to  their  opposites. 

There  was  an  aspect  of  slavery  as  it  existed 
in  our  Southern  states  that  was  beautiful, 
tender  and  charming.  The  relations  between 
master  and  servant  were  full  of  affection  and 
confidence,  and  the  kindly,  simple-hearted 
people  of  the  coloured  race  loved  their  white 
folk,  did  their  bidding,  had  their  own  merry 
makings  and  lived  their  lives  without  re 
sponsibility  and  without  protest,  often  from 
youth  to  age. 

There  was  another  and  sinister  aspect,  de 
grading  to  the  white  and  shameful  to  the 
black,  an  aspect  of  moral  obliquity  and  de 
generacy  of  which  the  proofs  were  evident 
enough  in  the  mixing  of  races,  and  in  the 
depraving  of  both.  There  must  have  been 
peril  in  any  case  to  both  races  when,  as  it  not 
infrequently  happened,  the  children  in  the 
great  house  and  the  children  in  the  cabins 
were  of  the  same  blood  on  the  father's  side. 

In  the  rice  and  sugar  plantations  there  was 
more  hardship  and  greater  cruelty  than  in 
Virginia  and  Kentucky,  and  it  was  the  one 
thing  dreaded  beyond  all  else  by  the  slaves 
in  the  more  favoured  states,  that  they  might 


166  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

be  sold  and  carried  farther  South.  The  slave 
markets  where  men  and  women  were  disposed 
of  at  auction  to  the  highest  bidder,  as  if  they 
had  been  beasts  of  the  field,  were  hideous  in 
the  eyes  of  Northern  men.  Equally,  in  the 
slaveholding  South,  the  very  mention  of 
abolition  was  abominable.  The  plain  truth 
was  that  slavery  was  a  plague  spot  as  danger 
ous  to  the  South  as  it  was  loathsome  to  the 
North.  So  long  as  it  could  be  confined 
within  certain  geographical  limits,  it  might 
be  endured,  but  when  commercial  necessity 
brought  into  close  proximity  in  the  border 
states  the  interests  of  slaveholders  and  of 
free-soilers,  there  was  no  longer  the  possi 
bility  of  peace.  Slavery  and  freedom  could 
not  exist  tranquilly  together. 

When  it  became  legally  possible  by  enact 
ment  of  Congress  for  a  slave  owner  to  pursue 
and  recover  his  fleeing  slave  in  a  free  state, 
the  storm  of  feeling  on  both  sides  raged  with 
vehemence  and  fury.  By  what  was  called 
the  underground  railroad,  those  who  escaped 
from  slavery  were  helped  and  passed  on  by 
friendly  hands,  from  point  to  point,  until 
they  were  safe  in  Canada  under  the  Brit 
ish  flag.  With  inconceivable  coolness  and 
bravery  some  of  these  men  and  women,  once 


HINTS  OF  THE  COMING  STOEM      167 

safe  and  free,  returned  again  to  the  South  to 
assist  into  freedom  friends  and  kin  whom 
they  had  left  behind. 

The  newspapers  of  that  day  in  Southern 
states  often  contained  advertisements  of  run 
aways  with  rewards  for  their  return,  and  de 
scriptions  of  this  human  property  were  not 
unlike  similar  descriptions  of  stray  cattle. 
When  good  people  were  so  widely  apart  in 
their  conclusions  that  half  of  them  main 
tained  that  slavery  was  a  divine  institution 
while  the  other  half  declared  it  to  be  of  the 
nature  of  hell,  there  was  no  common  ground 
on  which  they  could  meet  and  mingle. 
There  were  conservative  and  fair-minded 
Southern  men  who  perceived  clearly  that  the 
so-called  divine  institution  was  the  curse  of 
the  South,  and  they  hoped  for  gradual 
emancipation  and  for  the  manumission  of  the 
slaves,  and  perhaps  their  colonization  in 
Africa.  These,  however,  were  not  prepared 
for  a  general  emancipation,  and  they  did  not 
see  how  this  could  ever  take  place  without 
absolute  ruin  to  both  white  and  black. 
There  was,  in  short,  a  radical  and  irreconci 
lable  and  quite  honest  difference  of  sentiment 
throughout  the  United  States. 

Of  the  movements  behind  the  scenes  those 


168  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

in  front  of  the  stage  are  not  in  a  position  to 
judge.  There  is  undoubtedly  in  this  great 
country  of  ours  an  immense  amount  of  dis 
cussion  and  prearrangement  of  compromise 
here  and  concession  there  of  which  people  in 
general  know  very  little.  In  the  ten  years 
immediately  preceding  the  storm  of  1861, 
life  on  the  surface  progressed  to  the  mass 
with  little  interruption  of  the  usual  course. 

There  is  a  story  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's 
of  which  I  am  reminded  whenever  I  revert 
to  the  beginnings  of  the  Civil  War.  The 
story  is  of  an  inn  in  the  mountains.  To  its 
hospitable  door  travellers  come  at  nightfall 
and  by  its  blazing  hearth  they  sit  in  good 
fellowship  telling  stories  and  singing  songs. 
Odd  noises  are  heard  in  the  mountains,  and 
there  is  an  ominous  rising  of  the  wind,  but 
nobody  is  disturbed  and  nobody  pays  atten 
tion,  for  the  menace  of  the  mountain  and  the 
murmur  of  the  winds  have  been  heard  so 
often  that  they  have  grown  familiar  and 
awaken  no  anxiety.  Yet,  fast  following  on 
an  evening  of  pleasure  by  the  fireside  comes  a 
terrific  landslide,  blotting  out  the  inn  and 
swallowing  up  its  inhabitants. 

Our  landslide  precipitated  itself  upon  us  in 
the  fullness  of  time,  and  though  it  did  not  blot 


HINTS  OF  THE  COMING  STORM      169 

out  any  part  of  our  country,  it  left  ruin  and 
devastation  everywhere.  North  and  South 
it  decimated  the  ranks  of  our  young  men ; 
it  everywhere  made  widows  and  orphans  and 
left  in  its  wake  broken  hearts  and  shattered 
homes.  Before  that  great  landslide  there 
were  mutterings  and  menaces,  and  there  were 
those  who  heard  them  and  knew  what  they 
meant.  Preparations  went  on  for  warfare,  of 
fensive  and  defensive,  long  before  war  was 
actually  declared,  and  the  sowing  of  the  seed 
that  was  to  ripen  in  red  harvesting  went 
steadily  on.  By  the  majority  little  was  sus 
pected  and  nothing  feared.  So  astute  and 
shrewd  an  observer,  so  statesmanlike  a  ge 
nius  as  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  in  a  magnifi 
cent  sermon  in  Plymouth  Church,  affirmed 
in  my  hearing  that  there  was  no  cause  for 
alarm,  that  the  talk  we  heard  of  possible 
secession  was  the  merest  vapouring,  and  that 
in  the  end  nothing  would  happen.  As  the 
crowded  congregation  listened  spellbound  to 
the  great  preacher,  and  his  voice  in  its  un 
paralleled  music  thrilled  every  ear,  there  was 
no  dissent  in  the  minds  of  those  who  listened 
from  the  dictum  of  the  pulpit.  That  the 
threats  we  heard  would  ever  culminate  in  an 
assault  upon  the  flag,  few  of  us  believed.  Mr. 


170  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Beecber  only  voiced  the  conclusion  of  the 
people  at  large  when  he  declared  that  there 
would  be  no  direct  act  of  revolt  against  the 
permanence  of  the  Union,  although  the  dis 
affected  were  not  slow  in  agitating  the  public. 

We  have  come  to  canonize  Abraham 
Lincoln  as  the  noblest  of  Americans,  as  al 
most  the  finest  of  our  heroes  and  leaders, 
but  in  the  days  that  preceded  his  first  elec 
tion  he  was  abused  as  a  mountebank  and 
language  was  exhausted  to  furnish  a  suffi 
cient  vocabulary  in  which  to  express  the 
contempt  and  malice  of  his  political  op 
ponents.  Where  there  was  no  malice  and 
perhaps  no  contempt,  there  was  an  equal  dis 
like  of  and  turning  from  the  thought  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  presidential  chair. 

I  was  for  some  weeks  of  the  summer  previ 
ous  to  Lincoln's  first  election  a  guest  in  a 
Presbyterian  manse  in  New  Jersey.  The 
minister  was  a  man  of  great  dignity  and  of 
the  highest  breeding.  He  was  of  the  old 
school  of  courteous  gentlemen,  a  native  of 
South  Carolina  and  a  graduate  of  Princeton. 
He  could  not  so  much  as  bear  to  mention 
Lincoln's  name,  and  when  I  accompanied 
him,  as  it  was  often  my  privilege  to  do,  on 
long  drives  over  the  hills,  to  visit  outlying 


HINTS  OF  THE  COMING  STORM      171 

parishioners,  he  gave  me  much  information 
about  the  state  of  the  country,  the  infamy 
of  Northern  politicians  and  the  destruction 
that  would  come  to  us  were  Lincoln  elected. 

A  dear  old  lady  said  one  day,  with  up 
lifted  hands,  "  No  one  can  imagine  that  we'll 
ever  have  a  battle  I  "  Yet  she  was  to  see  a 
son  and  a  grandson  marching  off  to  encounter 
the  risks  of  many  an  engagement. 

Whittier  in  ringing  verse  over  and  over 
spoke  for  the  North  in  the  days  before  the 
war.  In  a  lyric  entitled  "  Massachusetts  to 
Virginia,"  he  tersely  put  the  situation  and 
the  sentiment  as  men  felt  and  spoke  and 
acted  almost  up  to  the  day  that  the  war  began. 

"  We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy  words 

and  high 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt 

along  our  sky  ; 
Yet,    not    one  brown,   hard  hand  foregoes  its 

honest  labour  here, 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe 

in  fear. 

""Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along 

St.  George's  bank ; 
Cold  on  the  shores  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white 

and  dank  ; 
Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist, 

stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 
The  fishing- smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats 

of  Cape  Ann. 


172  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

"  The  cold  north  light  and  starry  sun  glare  on  their 
icy  forms, 

Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrest 
ling  with  the  storms ; 

Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the 
waves  they  roam, 

They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against 
their  rocky  home. 

"  What  means  the  Old  Dominion  f    Hath  she  for 
got  the  day 
When   o'er    her    conquered  valleys  swept  the 

Briton's  steel  array? 

How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massa 
chusetts  men 

Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout 
i   ,     Cornwallis,  then  ? 

"  Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the 

call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from 

Faneuil  Hall  ? 
When,   echoing    back  her  Henry's  cry,   came 

pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of   Northern    winds    the    thrilling    sounds    of 

1  Liberty  or  Death  !  > ' 

In  the  whole  round  of  human  affairs  little 
is  so  fatal  to  peace  as  misunderstanding. 
When  this  is  coloured  by  suspicion  and  bol 
stered  by  prejudice  it  forms  an  element  as  de 
structive  as  dynamite.  South  and  North  were 
involved  in  misunderstanding,  the  more  to 
be  feared  that  it  could  not  but  result  in  a 
fraternal  feud.  No  quarrels  are  so  deadly 
as  those  in  which  members  of  the  same 


HINTS  OF  THE  COMING  STORM      173 

family  are  arrayed  against  one  another. 
In  the  border  states  it  was  peculiarly  evident 
that  the  feud  was  to  invade  and  embroil 
households  and  families.  I  knew  more  than 
one  home  in  which  during  that  time  of  ex 
citement  mothers  and  daughters  were  in 
antagonism,  and  brothers  were  at  enmit}^. 
Yet  to  the  outside  and  indifferent  spectator 
things  were  smooth  superficially.  Marriage 
bells  rang  as  merrily  as  ever,  children  played 
as  happily,  the  schools  and  universities  were 
full  of  the  youth  of  the  country,  and  buying 
and  selling  went  on  in  the  market-place. 
There  might  be  vast  preparations  going  on, 
ammunition  piling  up  and  men  drilling  in 
secret,  but  the  commonplace  world  fared  on 
its  commonplace  way,  and  was  none  the 
wiser. 

The  year  after  my  marriage  witnessed  the 
episode  of  John  Brown's  futile  attempt  at 
Harper's  Ferry ;  brave  old  fanatic  that  he 
was,  it  was  his  hand  that  all  unwittingly  let 
loose  the  dogs  of  war. 

A  few  weeks  ago  I  read  again  the  life  of 
that  sincere,  mistaken  old  enthusiast,  and  I 
lived  over  again  in  memory  the  days  of  his 
trial  and  the  day  of  his  execution.  To  me 
he  was  a  martyr.  To  the  Southern  kins- 


174  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

woman  who  was  spending  that  year  in  my 
home,  he  was  a  highway  robber  and  a  ruffian, 
and  we  could  not  talk  of  him,  so  conflicting 
vvere  our  views. 

Only  a  little  while,  so  swiftly  time  flies, 
and  in  Maryland  and  Virginia  I  saw  the 
gleam  of  the  camp-fires  and  heard  the  men 
singing  as  they  sang  throughout  the  war  : 

"  John  Brown's  body  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on." 

Julia  Ward  Howe,  inspired  by  the  sight 
of  the  men  in  army  blue  and  by  the  sound 
of  the  bugle  call  and  drum  beat  in  Washing 
ton,  wrote  her  immortal  "  Battle  Hymn  of 
the  Republic."  Long  may  we  sing  it  to  the 
same  tune  that  the  soldiers  sang.  Written 
for  one  war,  it  lives  forever  a  battle  hymn  of 
life  with  its  superb  refrain  : 

"  He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall 

never  call  retreat, 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His 
judgment  seat, 

O  be  swift  my  soul  to  answer  Him, 
Be  jubilant  my  feet, 

For  God  is  marching  on." 

As  the  clouds  grew  blacker  and  the  atmos 
phere  became  charged  with  passion,  press 


and  pulpit  took  up  the  dominant  note  of 
agitation  and  resentment.  I  had  relatives 
and  dear  friends  in  the  South,  and  was  there 
fore  by  way  of  hearing  how  they  felt  and 
talked  there.  In  the  North,  at  first  slowly, 
and  by  degrees  with  greater  momentum,  the 
feeling  of  doubt  and  indifference  changed  to 
one  of  positive  determination  and  indignant 
resolve.  Day  by  day  the  morning  news 
papers  brought  to  our  breakfast  tables  sug 
gestions  of  what  was  in  the  air.  Inflamma 
tory  speeches  were  made  and  threats  were 
loudly  expressed  against  Mr.  Lincoln,  hun 
dreds  of  people  predicting  that  he  would 
be  assassinated  before  his  inauguration.  A 
most  conservative  ministerial  friend  of  mine 
preached  one  Sunday  morning  an  eloquent 
sermon  on  the  duty  of  the  hour  from  the 
text,  "  He  that  hath  no  sword,  let  him  sell 
his  garment  and  buy  one."  Occasionally 
the  pulpit  displayed  unfairness  in  its  adapta 
tion  of  texts  to  sermons,  as  when  the  Rev.  T. 
DeWitt  Talmage,  never  hampered  by  con 
vention,  took  for  his  key-note  a  clause  from 
a  verse  and  used  it  for  his  dramatic  purpose. 
His  text  was  "  The  arms  of  the  South  shall 
not  withstand,"  but  looked  at  in  its  original 
connection,  it  had  no  reference  to  any  polit- 


176  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

ical   situation.     The  sermon,  however,  was 
prophetic  and  convincing. 

One  by  one  the  days  slipped  away,  the 
weeks  wore  into  months  and  the  clock  of 
Time  struck  the  hour  that  was  the  begin 
ning  of  our  transformation.  Whittier,  bard 
and  seer,  wrote  what  all  hearts  felt,  in  an 
other  of  his  war  lyrics  : 

"  If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done. 

"Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done." 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  forseeing  what 
the  end  must  be  in  a  conflict  evoked  by  in 
justice,  greed  and  mistaken  zeal,  and  justi 
fied  by  no  necessity,  ended  a  poem  concern 
ing  North  and  South  with  the  lines : 

"  God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swing 
The  pine  against  the  palm." 


XIV 

IN  WAR  DAYS 

NOT  so  very  long  ago,  we  in  America 
went  through  the  little  flurry  of  a 
brief  war  with  Spain.  With  its 
causes  and  results  this  chronicle  has  nothing 
to  do,  except  to  say  that  its  finest  fruit  was 
obtained  neither  in  Cuba  nor  the  Philip 
pines,  but  in  the  opportunity  it  afforded  for 
the  trampling  out  of  old  enmities  and  the 
reunion  of  old  soldiers  under  the  flag  of  the 
nation.  The  men  who  in  the  Civil  War 
confronted  one  another  as  foes  fought  side 
by  side  as  friends  in  this  last  war.  Time 
marches  at  a  double-quick  pace.  On  the 
record  of  history  a  half  century  counts  for 
little,  and  it  is  not  yet  a  half  century  since 
the  blue  and  the  gray  fought  in  the  wilder 
ness  at  Vicksburg,  at  Gettysburg,  in  the 
Shenandoah  Valley,  on  Lookout  Mountain 
and  in  many  another  field. 

When  the  war  began  it  is  noteworthy  that 
the  men  and  women  of  the  South  entered 
upon  it  in  a  fervour  of  patriotism  and  with  a 

177 


178  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

reckless  enthusiasm  that  stand  out  in  bril 
liant  contrast  against  the  matchless  sadness 
of  their  lost  cause.  The  older  and  wiser  men 
of  the  seceding  states  had  their  fears  and 
regrets,  but  they  were  loyal  rather  to  their 
state  than  their  country.  The  younger  men 
were  untrammelled  by  the  slightest  thought 
that  they  might  be  mistaken,  and  they  went 
into  the  war  in  precisely  the  arrogant  spirit 
of  the  cavaliers  who  in  the  days  of  Charles 
the  First  confronted  Cromwell's  Roundheads. 
They  anticipated  little  trouble.  Theirs  was 
the  dash  and  elan  of  a  superior  race  accustomed 
to  rule  an  inferior.  For  tradespeople,  day- 
labourers,  counter-jumpers,  they  cherished 
an  immense  disdain.  They  did  not  hesitate 
to  declare  that  theirs  would  be  an  easy  vic 
tory,  and  that  the  prosaic  people  of  the 
North,  who  presumed  to  oppose  them,  would 
have  long  opportunity  and  sorrowful  reason 
to  bewail  their  temerity.  Massachusetts,  New 
York,  Rhode  Island,  Ohio  were  alike  sur 
veyed  with  contempt  by  the  brave  young 
fellows  who  kissed  their  sweethearts  or  wives 
good-bye  and  rushed  to  the  war  as  to  a 
summer  holiday. 

The  women,  needless  to  say,  were  by  far 
more  bitter  than  the  men.     I  say  only  less 


IN  WAR  DAYS  179 

than  the  truth  when  I  speak  of  Southern 
matrons  and  Southern  maidens  as  the  loveli 
est,  most  winsome  and  most  charming  women 
in  the  wide  world.  Whether  they  live  to  se 
rene  old  age  or  wear  the  rosebud  bloom  of  earli 
est  youth,  they  are  exquisite  in  manner,  digni 
fied  in  bearing,  austere  in  virtue,  and  sweet 
to  the  core.  They  are  always  feminine.  The 
mannish  woman  has  never  been  a  Southern 
product.  Now  when  a  feminine  creature, 
from  a  lioness  to  a  hen,  stands  at  bay,  it  is  as 
well  to  beware  of  her.  Southern  women  in 
war  days  were  thoroughly  convinced  that 
their  cause  was  just.  They  were  unshaken 
in  their  creed  that  the  Northern  foe  was  a 
ruthless  invader  worthy  of  no  quarter.  They 
thought  that  God  was  on  their  side.  There 
was  not  a  sacrifice  from  which  they  shrank, 
nor  a  hardship  that  they  did  not  accept 
without  complaint.  When  poverty  of  the 
grimmest,  and  pain  of  the  sorest,  and  disap 
pointment  of  the  direst  became  their  portion, 
they  met  each  successive  onslaught  of  ca 
lamity  with  magnificent  courage  and  heroic 
pride.  From  first  to  last  the  women  of  the 
South  were  brave,  consistent  and  malignant. 
They  were  good  haters.  Left  in  many  cases 
alone  on  their  plantations,  often  without  a 


180  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

white  man  to  guard  them,  their  coloured 
people  stood  by  them  loyally.  None  of  the 
difficulties  and  none  of  the  crimes  that  natu 
rally  followed  the  sudden  enfranchisement 
of  an  enslaved  people  were  dreamed  of  dur 
ing  the  war.  Even  after  their  emancipation 
numbers  of  the  coloured  people,  not  yet 
knowing  what  to  do  with  freedom,  stayed 
with  and  worked  for  their  former  masters 
and  mistresses. 

The  mistress  of  a  plantation  before  the 
war  was  nurse,  mother,  caretaker,  com- 
mander-in-chief,  and  it  maj7  be  added,  serv- 
ant-in-chief  as  well,  carrying  the  burden  of 
administration  and  looking  after  the  conduct 
and  comfort  of  her  several  families  of  negroes. 
White  children  were  nursed  by  black  mam 
mies,  white  and  black  children  played  to 
gether  and  friendship  was  firmly  cemented 
between  them  though  the  white  were  to  be 
the  rulers  and  the  black  the  dependents. 
All  the  young  and  strong  men  of  the  South 
went  into  the  war  during  its  terrible  four 
years.  None  were  left  at  home,  but  the 
very  old,  the  crippled  and  the  infirm.  Boys 
in  their  teens  were  pressed  into  the  service, 
whole  classes  left  college  at  once  in  a  body, 
and  enlisted. 


IN  WAR  DAYS  181 

A  gallant  young  nephew  of  mine,  in  his 
seventeenth  year,  joined  Moseby's  command 
and  fought  through  the  war.  During  its 
progress  he  was  taken  prisoner  and  confined 
in  the  Old  Capitol  prison  in  Washington. 
From  its  grim  portals  he  contrived  to  send  a 
letter  to  me,  telling  of  his  misfortune  and 
asking  if  I  could  not  manage  to  send  him 
relief.  I  was  the  wife  of  an  officer  in  the 
Union  Army,  and  the  boy  was  a  captured 
rebel.  Nevertheless,  as  blood  is  thicker  than 
water,  I  speedily  sent  him  a  sum  of  money 
that  was  ample  enough  to  secure  for  him 
many  comforts.  No  great  interval  elapsed 
before  I  received  a  letter  conveyed  in  some 
way  through  the  lines,  telling  me  that  John 
through  my  timely  assistance  had  made  his 
escape,  and  was  again  in  the  field  with  his 
old  command. 

Prices,  as  every  one  knows,  mounted  sky 
ward  during  the  war.  We  gave  dollars  for  the 
purchase  of  goods  for  which  we  had  hitherto 
given  cents.  As  for  our  dress,  we  of  the 
North  were  arrayed  as  we  had  always  been, 
in  poplin  or  silk,  or  cotton,  as  we  chose, 
though  cotton  in  those  days  was  dearer  than 
silk.  Hoops  came  in  and  the  style  of  dress 
was  clumsy  and  absurd.  No  absurdity  of 


182  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

dress  can  do  much  to  eclipse  a  pretty  woman, 
and  so  we  did  not  look  badly  to  our  con 
temporaries,  though  in  the  cartes-de-visite, 
treasured  in  ancient  photograph  albums,  we 
are  figures  of  fun'.  The  management  of 
hoop  skirts  was  a  difficult  art.  They  were 
prone  to  tip  in  directions  inconvenient  to  the 
wearer,  and  the  woman  within  them  looked 
like  a  walking  pyramid. 

In  the  South,  women  were  reduced  to  every 
device  of  invention  and  every  resort  of  home 
made  contrivance  to  make  their  wardrobes 
equal  to  their  needs  when  their  ports  were 
blockaded  and  they  were  unable  to  hold  com 
munication  with  the  outside  world.  Women 
who  had  never  been  denied  a  luxury,  who 
had  worn  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  been 
treated  as  the  lilies  of  the  field  that  neither 
toil  nor  spin,  wore  their  old  clothes  dyed, 
darned  and  otherwise  rejuvenated,  with  a 
grace  that  would  not  have  shamed  the  old 
noblesse  of  France.  What  to  them  were  the 
trivial  considerations  of  fashion  when  their 
beloved  cause  was  wavering,  when  their  sick 
and  wounded  were  crowding  the  hospitals, 
and  when  slowly,  yet  inevitably,  the  strength 
of  the  North  was  triumphing  over  their 
weakness  ? 


IN  WAR  DAYS  183 

A  woman  of  Mississippi  said  to  me  that 
she  could  never  tell  how  striking  and  terrible 
was  the  contrast  when  their  own  soldiers, 
ragged  and  emaciated,  footsore  and  ill,  were 
seen  by  her  who  loved  them,  one  day  when 
the  Northern  soldiers  under  Grant  came 
pouring  in,  a  procession  that  seemed  endless. 
"  There  were  so  many  of  them,"  she  said, 
"  they  were  well  fed,  they  were  well  clothed, 
they  were  as  fresh  as  if  they  had  just  gone 
forth,  and  our  poor  fellows  were  so  pale  and 
thin  and  worn  out." 

The  women  of  the  border  states  knew  a 
great  deal  about  the  war  in  picturesque  per 
sonal  experience.  Undoubtedly  they  had 
much  to  complain  of,  but  as  General  Sherman 
said,  "  War  is  cruel,  and  you  cannot  refine  it." 

Long  after  the  Civil  War  was  over  I  drove 
with  friends  through  the  beautiful  Valley  of 
the  Shenandoah,  when  the  golden  harvest  of 
the  wheat  was  falling  before  the  scythe.  The 
Shenandoah  is  a  blue  ribbon  of  a  river  with 
twists  and  loops  through  its  folding  valley. 
The  valley  was  the  scene  of  hotly  con 
tested  encounters,  and  during  that  June 
drive  I  was  entertained  in  fine  old  houses 
that  had  successively  been  occupied  by 
Federal  and  Confederate  soldiers.  My  lovely 


184:  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

hostess  in  one  house  showed  me  a  devastated 
library  with  remnants  of  priceless  editions, 
and  a  desecrated  drawing-room  where,  with 
rude  vandalism,  mirrors  had  been  smashed 
and  carved  mantels  ruined.  This,  she  told 
me,  had  been  the  work  of  Pennsylvania 
Volunteers.  In  this  particular  house  succes 
sive  troops  of  both  armies  had  found  shelter, 
one  arriving  swiftly  on  the  heels  of  the  other, 
surprises  and  skirmishes  taking  place  in  the 
door-yard.  This  lady  had  owned  a  beauti 
ful  blooded  pony,  the  pride  of  her  heart. 
Feeling  certain  that  the  Yankee  soldiers  in 
one  of  their  raids  would  deprive  her  of  it, 
and  having  already  lost  other  valuable 
horses  that  had  been  seized  by  the  army,  she 
hid  her  pet  in  the  cellar,  going  there  to  feed 
him  and  doing  her  utmost  to  conceal  the  fact 
of  his  existence  from  the  enemy  established 
at  one  time  beneath  her  roof.  She  was 
startled  one  morning  by  a  question  from  the 

commanding  officer.     "  Mrs. ,  why  are 

you  keeping  a  horse  in  the  cellar  ?  He  may 
go  blind.  You  would  much  better  keep  him 
in  the  stable."  Ingenuously  telling  him 
why  she  was  hiding  her  pony,  he  begged  her 
to  dismiss  her  fears,  and  wrote  an  order  for 
her  to  show  others  of  our  army  who  might 


IN  WAR  DAYS  185 

subsequently  take,  possession  of  her  home. 
This  order  protected  her  horse  from  seizure, 
and  he  lived  to  a  good  old  age. 

Love  affairs  of  a  romantic  nature  were  not 
uncommon  in  war  days.  Once,  for  example, 
after  a  hard  day's  march,  a  group  of  men 
around  the  camp-fire  were  talking  of  home 
and  of  the  dear  ones  left  behind.  Said  one 
man  to  another,  "  When  next  we  get  any 
mail  I  will  show  you  a  letter  from  the  next 
to  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world,  a  cousin  who 
is  almost  like  a  sister  to  me."  Time  passed 
and  the  incident  and  promise  were  forgotten, 
when,  lo  !  one  evening  mail  arrived,  and  the 
reading  of  letters  from  home  blotted  out  the 
hardships  of  the  day  and  the  dread  of  the 
morrow.  From  one  of  the  letters  fell  a  little 
photograph.  The  young  lieutenant  picked  it 
up  to  restore  to  its  owner,  asking  if  he  might 
look  at  it.  "  Of  course  you  may,"  was  the 
answer.  "  It  is  the  picture  of  my  Cousin 
Sarah,  the  girl  I  told  you  of  a  month  ago.  I 
then  said  she  was  next  to  the  dearest  girl  in 
the  world." 

A  correspondence  was  begun,  and  this,  too, 
was  not  unprecedented  in  those  days,  between 
the  girl  at  home  and  her  cousin's  friend  in 
the  army.  She  and  her  girl  chum  had 


186  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

spoken  and  thought  a  great  deal  about  the 
army,  for  the  chum  was  engaged  to  Sarah's 
cousin  and  was  going  to  him  to  be  married, 
since  he  could  not  go  to  her.  After  a  brief 
correspondence,  Cousin  Sarah  in  her  turn  an 
nounced  her  engagement  to  the  lieutenant 
who  had  taken  her  heart  by  storm,  and,  be 
fore  the  war  ended,  they  were  married.  They 
met  only  once  previous  to  their  wedding  day. 
Leaves  of  absence  were  not  easily  obtained 
in  that  strenuous  time,  but  the  lieutenant 
gained  a  short  furlough  when  he  presented 
himself  in  person  to  Sarah  and  her  fam 
ily.  The  young  girl  found  her  ideal  ful 
filled,  and  the  soldier's  plea  was  granted 
by  her  father  and  mother.  I  knew  them 
intimately  in  the  years  of  peace.  Both 
are  gone,  and  I  am  therefore  able  to  speak 
of  them  candidly.  The  marriage  of  ro 
mance  was  not  altogether  a  happy  one, 
for  the  two  stepped  from  a  different  back 
ground,  and  their  training  for  life  had 
been  diverse.  Yet  both  were  conscientious 
and  faithful.  Their  tastes  in  literature 
were  congenial  and  their  creed  to  which 
they  clung  loyally  was  the  same.  They 
had  a  beautiful  home  and  were  given  to 
hospitality,  and  if  there  was  a  jarring 


IN  WAR  DAYS  187 

chord,  it  was  due  to  the  fact  that  Cousin 
Sarah  demanded  more  sentiment  and  poetry 
than  her  practical  husband  could  give.  If 
the  story  has  a  moral,  it  is  that  in  marriage 
it  is  well  not  to  trust  exclusively  an  acquaint 
ance  ripened  only  in  letters. 

I  was  often  the  confidante  of  men  away 
from  home  who  thought  and  talked  about 
the  girls  to  whom  they  were  betrothed. 
One  brave  youth,  not  far  beyond  his  early 
twenties,  was  never  weary  of  descanting  on 
the  perfections  of  his  distant  Julia.  "  If 
Julia  and  I  are  married,"  he  would  say, 
"  we  will  do  this  or  the  other  thing,  if  Julia 
and  I  are  ever  wife  and  husband,  we  will 
show  other  people  that  plain  republicans  can 
have  as  good  a  time  as  a  king  and  a  queen," 
and  so  on,  laughing  as  he  chatted  away  in 
the  foolishly  happy  way  of  a  young  man  in 
love.  "  Why  do  you  always  say  '  if '  ?  "  I  in 
quired.  "  Why  not  say  when  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  he  replied,  "  I  cannot  presume  to 
say  when,  the  girl  being  Julia.  She  is  as 
coy  as  a  bird  on  a  bough,  and  here  I  am  in 
the  army,  and  there  is  she  at  home  with  a 
dozen  fellows  paying  court  to  her." 

"  Yes,  but  she  is  your  promised  wife,"  I 
said.  "  Surely  you  trust  her  word  and  be- 


188  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

lieve  that  her  yes  means  really  yes,  and  not 
perhaps." 

"  Well,"  he  summed  up  the  matter, 
"  when  Julia  and  I  are  walking  up  the  aisle 
together  and  the  parson  is  waiting  and  the 
wedding  march  is  being  played  I  shall  be 
lieve  in  my  good  fortune,  and  not  till  then." 
Without  irreverence,  it  may  be  said,  that 
this  young  lover  was  like  Christians  who 
lack  assurance.  His  Julia  was  devotedly  at 
tached  to  him,  and  the  day  came  when  they 
walked  up  the  aisle  together  and  the  words 
were  pronounced  that  made  them  one  for 
life.  They  had  three  beautiful  years,  only 
three.  At  the  end  of  that  period  a  jealous 
rival  who  had  been  in  the  Confederate  Army 
while  my  friend  was  in  the  Union  Army,  a 
man  from  the  same  county  and  a  graduate 
of  the  same  school,  rode  up  to  the  door  one 
evening  in  the  dusk,  accompanied  by  several 
friends.  He  dismounted  from  his  horse, 
which  one  of  the  friends  held.  They  stood 
perfectly  still,  a  little  in  the  shadow.  The 
wife  was  ill  in  a  room  up-stairs,  and  the  hus 
band  was  sitting  by  her  side.  Julia's 
coloured  Mammy  who  had  been  with  her  all 
her  life,  opened  the  door  and  replied  that 
her  master  was  in,  summoning  him  to  meet 


IN  WAR  DAYS  189 

a  stranger.  He  came  down-stairs  to  find  a 
revolver  pointed  at  his  breast.  A  single 
word  and  with  fatal  aim,  the  assassin  fired, 
and  rode  away.  My  friend  lived  only  long 
enough  to  reach  his  wife's  bedside  where  he 
fell  dead.  I  have  never  forgotten  his  tragic 
fate,  his  blithe  young  face,  his  ready  laugh 
and  his  gay  wit.  He  had  been  a  good  sol 
dier  and  had  gone  unscathed  through  many 
battles,  to  die  by  the  hand  of  a  murderer 
who  revenged  himself  thus,  because  he,  too, 
had  been  a  suitor  for  a  fair  girl's  hand,  and 
had  been  refused. 

In  the  border  states,  in  those  days,  there 
was  plenty  of  room  for  elemental  passion  and 
weird  vindictiveness. 

How  many  things  return  to  one  who  looks 
back  over  forty  years !  The  tragic  and  the 
comic,  the  joyful  and  the  sorrowful  often 
touch  one  another.  I  remember  a  rough 
illiterate  soldier  to  whom  I  often  spoke  in 
the  days  when  he  was  recovering  from  a 
wound  in  the  hospital.  He  was  a  good  deal 
my  senior,  but  when  -  he  was  fit  for  duty 
again  he  came  one  day  to  pay  his  respects 
and  to  bring  me  a  present.  It  proved  to  be 
a  useful,  though  not  ornamental  plated 
castor,  holding  four  bottles  for  oil,  vinegar, 


190  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

etc.  "  You  have  been  a  mother  to  me,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  fancied  you  might  like  this." 

Another  lad  in  army  blue,  a  brave,  sol 
dierly  fellow,  told  me  that  he  had  never 
learned  either  to  read  or  write.  It  was 
strange,  for  he  was  not  lacking  in  intelli 
gence,  and  evidently  had  a  good  mind. 
"  You  must  learn,"  I  said,  "  and  you  would 
better  begin  to-day."  We  strenuously  at 
tempted  the  work,  he  as  pupil  and  I  as 
teacher,  and  before  many  weeks  he  wrote  a 
good  hand  and  read  remarkably  well.  I 
lost  sight  of  him  in  the  comings  and  goings 
of  enlisted  men,  and  had  indeed  forgotten 
him  when,  one  day  in  walking  in  Grand 
Street,  New  York,  my  progress  was  sud 
denly  arrested  by  a  big  uniformed  police 
man  who  appeared  to  fill  up  the  street. 
"  Why,  you  do  not  know  me,"  he  said. 
"  And  here  I  am  on  the  force,  and  I  owe  it 
all  to  you."  He  was  my  soldier  boy,  and  he 
lived  a  useful  and  honoured  life,  becoming  a 
police  captain  and  dying,  alas,  in  the  merid 
ian  of  his  years. 

I  recall,  too,  a  day  spent  in  Washington 
in  the  second  year  of  the  war.  I  was  looking 
for  a  wounded  man.  A  friend  in  the  West 
had  written  urging  me  to  find  and  minister 


IN  WAR  DAYS  191 

to  him,  if  I  could.  I  went  from  one  hos 
pital  to  another,  through  ward  after  ward, 
finding  at  last  the  object  of  my  search. 
Such  quests  were  not  always  successful. 
When  they  were  the  joy  of  sending  good 
news  home  paid  for  no  end  of  trouble. 


XV 

THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR,  AND  THE 
DEATH  OF  LINCOLN 

BETWEEN  April  14,  1861,  when 
Abraham  Lincoln  issued  his  first  call 
for  volunteers  and  April  9,  1865,  when 
Robert  E.  Lee  at  Appomattox  Court  House, 
Virginia,  surrendered  his  sword  to  Ulysses 
S.  Grant,  lay  four  terrible  years.  No  one 
who  lived  in  those  days  of  strife  can  forget 
them.  We  did  not  then  call  the  conflict,  as 
we  call  it  now,  the  Civil  War,  although  such 
in  reality  it  was.  In  the  South  they  termed 
us  Yankees,  a  name  always  linked  with  re 
proach,  invaders  and  usurpers. 

A  young  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  refined 
and  highly  cultivated  family,  told  me  that 
when  she  heard  that  Yankee  soldiers  were  to 
march  into  Norfolk  she  hid  herself  for  hours 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  attic.  Finally, 
as  strains  of  military  music  filled  the  air, 
curiosity  triumphed  over  fear  and  she  fur 
tively  peeked  from  the  window.  She  said, 

192 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR  193 

"  I  expected  to  see  a  procession  of  devils 
with  horns  and  hoofs,  and  I  could  scarcely 
believe  my  eyes  when  the  meii,  in  their  blue 
uniforms,  came  by  looking  like  other  men. 
I  hated  the  sight  of  those  uniforms,  but  there 
was  nothing  I  could  do  to  show  how  much 
I  detested  the  soldiers  except  to  make  faces 
at  them  behind  the  pane." 

This  'girl  was  a  lady  in  manner  and  had 
received  a  good  education.  There  were 
gentlewomen  not  a  few  in  those  tempestuous 
days  who  did  not  hesitate  to  show  their  aver 
sion  to  Northern  soldiers  in  less  childish 
fashion  than  that  of  making  faces.  South 
ern  women  would  draw  their  clothing  away 
as  with  veiled  countenances  they  trod  the 
same  streets  with  Union  soldiers.  Occa 
sionally  a  woman  would  so  far  forget  herself 
as  audibly  to  call  approbrions  names  when 
she  passed  the  blue-coated  ranks.  I  do  not 
think  that  women  of  the  highest  social  rank 
or  of  real  refinement  ever  stooped  to  the  dis 
grace  of  spitting  at  the  soldiers  whom  they 
hated.  This  act  of  contumely  was  left  to  the 
baser  born  and  more  ignorant  of  their  num 
ber.  It  must  also  be  acknowledged  to  the 
credit  of  womanly  hearts  and  of  Christian 
sentiment  that  kind  hands  often  ministered 


194:  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

to  wounded  Northern  soldiers  as  well  as  to 
those  who  wore  the  gray. 

The  horrors  that  surrounded  Northern 
prisoners  of  war  at  Libby  and  Andersonville 
baffle  language  to  describe.  The  conditions 
of  Southern  military  prisons  during  the  Civil 
War  were  revolting.  Yet  the  Confederate 
authorities  were  almost  powerless  to  remedy 
the  situation.  Supplies  were  cut  off,  they 
were  confronting  starvation  themselves,  they 
could  not  feed  their  own  people  and  they 
could  not  well  and  properly  care  for  their 
own  wounded  and  sick.  They  naturally  felt 
little  tenderness  for  Northern  prisoners,  but 
they  probably  did  what  they  could,  which 
was  very  little,  to  make  their  confinement 
bearable.  I  have  seen  thousands  of  North 
ern  soldiers  returning  as  exchange  prisoners 
on  parole,  from  the  military  jails  where  they 
had  been  awaiting  death  or  release.  They 
were  gaunt  spectres  of  humanity,  emaciated 
to  skin  and  bone,  young  men  tottering  as  if 
they  were  old,  and  it  is  less  than  the  truth 
to  say  that  those  who  died  on  the  field  were 
often  more  fortunate  than  their  comrades 
who  were  taken  prisoners,  for  disease  some 
times  laid  its  hand  on  the  latter  with  a 
clutch  that  could  not  be  loosened,  These 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR  195 

men  were  exchanged  for  an  equal  number  of 
Southern  prisoners  of  war  sent  back  to  their 
commands. 

Our  Northern  system  in  the  military 
prisons  was  not  above  criticism.  We,  too, 
inflicted  unnecessary  hardships  on  prisoners, 
for  which  we  had  reason  to  blush,  but  our 
conditions  were  far  better  and  we  were  not 
ourselves  suffering  from  utterly  depleted 
resources  and  an  exhausted  commissariat. 

Through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
North  the  soldiers  of  the  Confederacy  were 
called  rebels.  A  stubborn  determination 
filled  both  Federals  and  Confederates,  and 
on  neither  side  was  there  a  thought  of  com 
promise  or  stopping  until  the  bitter  end. 
The  sentiment,  as  the  Northern  army  felt 
it,  was  tersely  expressed  in  a  quatrain  that 
comes  into  memory  as  I  write. 

"  "We  have  heard  the  rebel  yell, 
We  have  heard  the  Union  shout, 
We  know  the  matter  very  well, 
And  we  mean  to  fight  it  out." 

Songs  and  music  kindled  the  ardour  of  the 
blue  and  the  gray.  We  had  nothing  sweeter 
and  more  inspiring  than  "  Dixie "  and 
"  Maryland,  My  Maryland/'  that  the  South- 


196  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

ern  boys  sang  around  their  camp-fires,  and 
which  the  Southern  girls,  left  desolate  at 
home,  sang  with  white  lips  and  dauntless 
hearts.  We  had  our  "  Rally  Round  the 
Flag,  Boys,"  "  Coming,  Father  Abraham," 
and  "  Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  the  Boys  are 
Marching." 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  when  I 
hear  these  old  strains  played  on  a  hand- 
organ  by  a  wandering  street  musician  I  am 
more  moved  than  by  the  finest  airs  on  the 
operatic  stage.  The  rollicking,  lilting  tunes 
of  the  war  time  carry  me  back  to  those  days 
of  uncertainty,  anxiety  and  excitement,  days 
when  life  moved  to  the  note  of  the  bugle 
and  the  beat  of  the  drum,  and  when  hour  by 
hour  we  waited  in  suspense,  not  knowing 
what  the  next  instant  might  mean  to  us. 

The  battles  of  the  Civil  War  were  deadly, 
and  long  lists  of  killed  and  wounded  and 
mournful  lists  of  missing  filled  the  newspa 
pers  after  every  encounter.  The  childish 
idea  of  battles  in  array,  standing  in  full 
view  each  of  the  other,  vaguely  lingers  in  the 
mind  of  many  who  are  grown  to  maturity, 
and  it  is  not  until  we  have  walked  over 
battle-fields  and  have  seen  how  men  have 
fought  under  cover  of  groves  and  bits  of 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR  197 

woodland  and  from  the  shelter  of  fences  and 
barns,  fighting  all  day  long  over  ploughed 
land,  on  mountain  top  or  hill  crest,  that  we 
get  an  idea  of  real  warfare. 

At  Petersburg,  Virginia,  there  were  two 
forts  that  had  been  gallantly  held  by  the 
Confederates  and  fiercely  striven  for  by  their 
opponents.  Walking  over  the  ground  near 
those  fortifications  a  few  days  after  the  close 
of  the  war,  my  near-sighted  eyes  caught  the 
glint  of  something  bright  on  the  ground. 
Stooping  to  pick  it  up,  supposing  it  to  be  a 
bit  of  metal,  my  hand  closed  over  a  lock  of 
bright  golden  hair.  Just  beneath  that  crust 
of  earth  lay  the  form  of  a  soldier  as  he  had 
fallen,  his  comrades  having  given  him 
burial  so  scant  that  the  earth  had  not  wholly 
covered  the  golden  head.  To  that  body  and 
others  was  given  Christian  burial.  One  of 
the  most  pathetic  sights  in  this  country  to 
me  is  that  of  small  white  tombstones  in 
National  Cemeteries  on  which  is  the  inscrip 
tion  "  Unknown."  Somewhere  in  the  long 
ago,  hearts  ached,  tears  fell  and  homes 
grieved  for  the  loss  of  those  unidentified  sol 
diers. 

In  Savannah,  Georgia,  where  the  gray 
moss  waves  from  the  trees  as  if  it  were 


198  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

silently  bewailing  the  dead,  there  is  an  im 
pressive  monument  erected  over  the  Confed 
erate  soldiers  buried  there.  It  bears  the 
touching  inscription,  "  Come  from  the  four 
winds,  O  breath,  and  breathe  upon  these 
slain  that  they  may  live."  When  annually 
May  brings  to  most  states  of  the  Union  a 
Memorial  Day,  flowers  are  impartially  dis 
tributed  over  the  graves  of  those  who  poured 
their  blood  in  crimson  sacrifice  in  those 
thrilling  years. 

Not  all  the  states  combine  to  keep  Decora 
tion  Day  on  the  30th  of  May,  several  of 
the  Southern  States  having  a  day  of  their 
own  ;  but  throughout  most  of  the  Union  the 
nation  remembers  its  sons  who  fell  in  the 
Civil  War,  garlands  their  graves  and  has 
love  and  tears  alike  for  blue  and  gray. 
There  is  no  bitterness  in  our  thought  now, 
and  the  children  born  in  this  day,  by  the 
time  they  have  reached  their  majority,  may 
look  upon  the  period,  so  pregnant  with  great 
issues  and  so  interesting  to  its  survivors,  as  a 
mere  episode.  Already  Decoration  Day  has 
lost  much  of  its  original  sad  solemnity  and 
gentle  significance,  and  is  welcomed  as  a 
holiday  by  children  at  school  and  weary 
business  people.  The  Grand  Army  of  the 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR  199 

Republic  is  thinned  year  by  year  by  the 
death  of  the  veterans,  and  one  of  these  days 
there  will  be  somewhere  a  lonely  man  who 
will  possess  the  sombre  dignity  of  the  last 
soldier  who  fought  under  Grant. 

In  the  closing  days  of  the  war  I  happened 
to  be  staying  in  Baltimore,  a  typical  border 
city.  Maryland  never  left  the  Union,  but 
the  hearts  of  many  of  her  citizens  were 
pledged  to  the  Southern  cause,  and  many  of 
its  beautiful  women  pinned  a  secession  flag 
to  their  corsage  all  through  the  war.  On  the 
direct  route  to  Washington,  it  was  there 
that  the  first  soldiers  of  the  Union  fell, 
soldiers  of  the  Massachusetts  Sixth,  on  their 
way  to  the  Capital,  and  Governor  Andrew 
sent  from  Boston  his  pathetic  telegram, 
"  Send  tenderly  home  the  bodies  of  our 
Massachusetts  dead." 

In  Baltimore,  on  the  evening  of  the  9th  of 
April,  1865,  the  entire  population  was  on 
the  street.  The  crowds  surged  to  and  fro 
and  the  wildest  joy  prevailed.  Strangers 
embraced  one  another,  bands  played,  groups 
broke  out  into  cheers  and  songs,  and  one 
triumphant  thought  transcended  all  else. 
The  war  was  over,  we  were  to  be  at  peace, 
Lee  had  surrendered  !  To  the  Unionists  the 


200  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

tidings  seemed  too  good  to  be  true ;  the  Con 
federates  in  heart  heard  them  like  a  death 
knell.  The  most  marked  contrast  was  seen 
in  the  residential  quarters  of  the  town  where 
whole  houses  were  illuminated,  blazing  with 
light  from  attic  to  basement  and  waving  with 
flags,  while  a  door  or  two  away  a  house  would 
stand  wrapped  in  midnight  gloom,  not  the 
glimmer  of  a  candle  perceptible,  in  an  effect 
of  profoundest  melancholy. 

The  contagion  of  enthusiasm,  the  intense 
relief  that  the  war  was  over  and  that  we  were 
to  have  peace  made  the  night  memorable. 
Nobody  thought  of  going  to  bed.  Groups 
broke  out  into  spontaneous  song  and  shout, 
and  those  who  lamented  drifted  back  into 
the  shadows,  a  turbulent  minority  indeed, 
but  not  one  to  be  dreaded.  Little  could  any 
one  forecast  in  that  flood-tide  of  gladness  the 
sorrow  that  was  soon  to  eclipse  our  joy. 

Women  wore  mourning  for  the  Con 
federacy,  although  they  had  lost  neither 
kinsman  nor  friend.  To  those  who  had 
hoped  for  the  success  of  the  South  its  failure 
involved  heart-break.  Long  after  the  war 
was  past  and  the  scenes  of  this  night  had 
receded  into  history,  I  one  day  met  a  brilliant 
Southern  woman  whose  garb  indicated  woe 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR  201 

and  whose  face  bore  signs  of  tears.  Inquir 
ing  what  occasioned  her  sadness  I  was  told 
that  she  always  wore  mourning  for  the  lost 
cause,  on  the  9th  of  April. 

A  Southern  friend  came  in  one  day  flushed 
and  hurried,  and  explained  that  she  was  per 
fectly  worn  out  because  she  had  been  dodging 
the  United  States  flag  all  day.  This  also  was 
when  the  war  was  over,  and  when  on  a 
patriotic  anniversary  the  streets  were  gay 
with  bunting. 

Of  my  dear  ones  who  were  with  me  on 
that  April  evening,  1865,  and  of  the  group  of 
friends  who  shared  the  fullness  of  that  victori 
ous  hour,  not  one  remains.  It  is  a  far  cry 
from  1865  to  1909.  The  years  of  the  Civil 
War  are  in  memory  as  the  pageant  of  a  dream, 
and  the  large  majority  of  those  who  belonged 
to  my  life  then  have  passed  to  that  shore 
where  "  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace." 

We  were  destined  very  soon  to  undergo 
the  shock  of  Lincoln's  assassination.  On 
the  10th  of  April  with  my  husband  and 
several  friends  I  started  for  Richmond,  the 
fallen  Capital  of  the  Confederacy.  Rich 
mond  is  beautiful  for  situation,  but  ruin  and 
disaster  and  the  still  smoking  embers  of  a 
wasting  conflagration  made  it  unspeakably 


202  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

sad  as  I  then  saw  it.  On  the  15th  of  April 
when  the  news  of  Lincoln's  death  at  the 
hands  of  John  Wilkes  Booth,  was  flashed 
over  the  land,  we  who  had  been  so  joyous 
were  crushed  beneath  a  weight  of  woe.  The 
tragedy  enveloped  us  in  a  pall  of  blackness, 
and  every  loyal  household  grieved  as  for  its 
own.  Patient  and  wise  and  steadfast,  the 
great  Captain  had  piloted  the  Ship  of  State 
through  its  stormiest  voyage,  and  now  he 
lay  done  to  death  on  its  deck.  We  are  far 
enough  from  that  time  of  trouble  to  realize 
that  it  was  God's  kindest  angel  who  snatched 
Abraham  Lincoln  away  in  the  hour  of  su 
preme  success,  but  we  could  not  feel  that 
when  the  loss  was  recent,  nor  admit  it  for 
long  thereafter. 

Walt  Whitman's  superb  poem,  the  finest 
he  ever  wrote,  and  worth  pages  of  his  other 
verse,  will  live  as  long  as  Lincoln's  hallowed 
memory. 

O  CAPTAIN  !  MY  CAPTAIN  » 

"  O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weathered  every  rack,  the  prize  we 

sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all 

exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim 

and  daring ; 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR  203 

But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 

O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  oil  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 

Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


"  O  Captain  !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells  ; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the 

bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribboned  wreaths — for  you 

the  shores  a-crowding 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager 
faces  turning  ; 

Here,  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head  ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 

You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 


"  My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and 

still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse 

nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage 

closed  and  done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with 
object  won ; 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells  J 

But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead." 


John  Wilkes  Booth,  a  young  actor  said  to 
be  gifted,  a  brother  of  the  incomparable 
Edwin  Booth,  partially  represented  the  mad 
dened  spirit  of  the  South  at  that  crucial 
moment.  There  may  have  been  thousands 
of  young  lunatics  who  felt  as  he  did  and 


204:  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

who  gloried  in  his  foolhardy  act  of  murder. 
Those  who  knew  him  best  declared  that 
there  was  in  him  much  that  was  lovable, 
and  it  may  easily  be  that  he  felt  himself  an 
avenger  as  he  levelled  his  revolver  and 
shouted  "  Sic  semper  tyrannus."  Never  was 
assassination  more  entirely  without  excuse, 
never  went  martyr  more  blamelessly  to  the 
stake.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  the  best  men  of 
the  South  deeply  deplored  the  insane  act  of 
John  Wilkes  Booth. 

In  an  exquisite  monograph  entitled  "  Why 
We  Love  Lincoln  "  James  Creelman  sympa 
thetically  describes  the  death  scene.  "  After 
he  was  shot  by  John  Wilkes  Booth  in  Ford's 
Theatre  on  April  14,  1865,  Lincoln  never 
spoke  again.  He  had  seen  the  stars  and 
stripes  raised  in  Richmond.  He  had  seen 
the  end  of  human  slavery  on  the  American 
continent.  The  nation  was  one  again.  But 
he  was  to  speak  no  death-message.  It  was 
all  in  that  last  great  speech :  '  With  malice 
towards  none ;  with  charity  for  all.' 

"  For  hours  they  stood  about  him  as  he  lay 
moaning  or  struggling  for  breath,  his  wife, 
his  cabinet  officers,  his  pastor,  secretary  and 
doctors.  At  daybreak  the  troubled  look 
vanished  from  his  face.  There  was  absolute 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR  205 

stillness,  followed  by  a  trembling  prayer  by 
the  pastor. 

11  *  Now  he  belongs  to  the  ages/  said  the 
deep  voice  of  Secretary  Stanton." 

I  can  best  complete  this  chapter  by  quot 
ing  the  noble  conclusion  of  Abraham 
Lincoln's  last  message  to  the  American 
people,  a  message  so  sublime  that  it  gains 
lustre  as  time  rolls  on. 

"  Fondly  do  we  hope — fervently  do  we 
pray — that  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may 
speedily  pass  away.  Yet  if  God  wills  that  it 
continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the 
bondsman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of 
unrequited  toil  shall  be  sunk,  and  until 
every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with  the  lash  shall 
be  paid  by  another  drawn  with  the  sword, 
as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still 
it  must  be  said,  '  The  judgments  of  the  Lord 
are  true  and  righteous  altogether.' 

"  With  malice  towards  none  ;  with  charity 
for  all ;  with  firmness  in  the  right,  let  us 
strive  on  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in ;  to 
bind  up  the  nation's  wounds,  to  care  for  him 
who  shall  have  borne  the  battle,  and  for  his 
widow,  and  his  orphan — to  do  all  which  may 
achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  lasting  peace 
among  ourselves,  and  with  all  nations." 


XVI 

A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  IN  THE  RECONSTRUC 
TION  PERIOD 

REVERTING  to  the  years  immediately 
after  the  war  when  we  pitched  our 
tent,  so  to  speak,  in  Norfolk,  Vir 
ginia,  and  took  up  our  abode  there  as  a 
family,  I  find  myself  living  in  a  dream  of 
fair  women  and  brave  men.  I  hear  again 
the  thrilling  sweetness  of  the  mocking-bird, 
I  see  the  glory  of  the  crepe  myrtle  trees, 
each  a  magnificent  bouquet  of  roseate  bloom, 
I  walk  through  gardens  hedged  with  box 
and  running  over  with  flowers,  I  stoop  to 
gather  white  violets,  I  watch  the  ships 
floating  over  the  river  and  once  again  I 
am  thralled  by  the  melody  of  the  South. 
How  ineffaceable  is  its  charm  !  How  the 
beauty  of  it  tugs  at  the  heart,  how  one 
wakens  to  think  of  it  in  the  night,  and 
yearns  for  it  in  the  morning !  I  who  have 
never  lost  my  love  for  the  South,  though  I 
lived  there  less  than  ten  years,  understand 
its  hold  on  those  who  are  its  native  born, 

206 


A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  207 

and  marvel  that  they  can  willingly  permit 
themselves  to  be  exiled  in  permanence  from 
its  loveliness  and  its  grace. 

I  think  of  people  much  more  than  of 
localities  when  memory  turns  backward  to 
Norfolk  in  the  reconstruction  days.  Fore 
most  among  those  I  revered  and  loved  rises 
the  saintly  figure  of  the  Rev.  George  D. 
Armstrong,  at  that  time  pastor  of  the  Pres 
byterian  Church  in  which  we  worshipped. 
Northern  residents  in  the  South  often  com 
plained  of  the  incivility  with  which  they 
were  treated  by  those  who  looked  upon  their 
coming  as  an  intrusion,  and  felt  towards  them 
something  of  the  suspicion  that  seems  to  be 
an  ingrained  part  of  our  nature  whenever 
we  have  to  do  with  foreigners. 

Undoubtedly,  numbers  of  people  had 
reason  to  complain,  but  for  ourselves  we  had 
no  cause  for  anything  except  appreciation  of 
kindness  shown.  Dr.  Armstrong  was  from 
the  first  our  friend  and  his  prayers  and 
sermons  are  unforgotten.  As  a  preacher  he 
stood  in  the  front  rank.  His  sermons  were 
eloquent,  convincing  and  instructive.  Little 
phrases  return  to  me  as  when  he  defined  a 
hypocrite  as  a  play-actor,  and  spoke  of 
mercy  as  "  favour  shown  by  God,  not  to  the 


208  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

undeserving  but  to  the  ill-deserving."  This 
benignant  and  scholarly  man  had  been  treated 
with  harshness  by  General  Benjamin  F.  But 
ler,  to  the  lasting  regret  of  all  who  knew  him 
and  who  knew  the  circumstances.  Refusing 
for  conscience'  sake  to  pray  publicly  for  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  he  had  been 
forced  to  wear  a  convict's  garb  and  toil  in 
the  sun,  at  Old  Point.  The  imprisonment 
lasted,  I  believe,  several  months.  That  it 
was  undergone  for  a  single  day  seemed  to 
me  then,  and  seems  to  me  now  incredible, 
but  war  is  war.  Dr.  Armstrong  did  not 
pray  in  my  hearing  for  the  President  of  the 
United  States.  In  his  pastoral  prayer  there 
was  a  general  petition  for  those  in  authority 
over  us,  and  he  asked  that  we  might  live 
peaceable  lives,  in  all  godliness  and  honesty. 
As  a  member  of  his  congregation  and  the 
teacher  of  a  Bible  Class  in  the  Sunday-school 
I  greatly  enjoyed  Dr.  Armstrong's  ministra 
tions.  He  laid  strong  foundations  on  which 
the  Presbyterians  of  that  section  of  Virginia 
have  built  firmly  since  his  day.  It  was  in 
keeping  with  the  character  of  this  good  man 
that  during  the  epidemic  of  yellow  fever 
which  some  years  before  the  war  swept  over 
Norfolk,  he  remained  at  his  post  of  service. 


A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  209 

Hand  in  hand  with  other  ministers  of  re 
ligion  and  with  the  doctors  and  nurses  who 
count  not  their  lives  dear  in  such  times  of 
extremity,  he  had  gone  from  house  to  house, 
caring  for  the  sick  and  burying  the  dead. 
He  told  me  that  one  night  when  he  had 
spent  hour  after  hour  in  carrying  food  to  the 
famishing  and  comfort  to  the  dying  he  had 
in  the  dawn-light  clasped  hands  with  the 
good  Roman  Catholic  priest  who  had  been 
similarly  occupied.  Both  men  and  others 
like  them  gave  themselves  without  fear  and 
without  stint  in  heroic  service  to  the  com 
munity  in  this  emergency.  The  realization 
came  to  Dr.  Armstrong  then  of  the  nearness 
of  God  and  the  brevity  of  life.  He  said  he 
knew  the  meaning  of  the  familiar  couplet, 

"  Part  of  His  host  have  crossed  the  flood, 
And  part  are  crossing  now." 

I  am  fain  to  lay  this  leaf  upon  his  honoured 
grave.  Green  be  his  memory. 

Another  figure  thrown  up  in  relief  on  the 
canvas  of  the  past  is  that  of  our  good  physi 
cian,  Dr.  Samuel  Selden.  He  was  a  man 
of  rare  skill,  friendliness,  and  distinction 
of  manner  and  breeding.  Dr.  Selden's  en 
trance  in  a  home  where  there  was  anxiety 


210  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

and  pain  was  like  that  of  a  refreshing  breeze. 
He  was  himself  a  continual  martyr  to  pain 
and  died  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood. 
Of  all  men  whom  I  have  known  he  had  the 
largest  toleration  for  those  whose  opinions 
differed  from  his,  united  with  the  strongest 
conviction  in  maintaining  his  own.  He 
could  argue  without  losing  his  temper;  he 
had  charity  for  those  whose  creed  was  oppo 
site  to  his  and  he  had  a  great  love  for  little 
children.  A  sense  of  humour  was  part  of  his 
endowment  for  success,  and  had  he  lived 
longer  he  would  have  made  for  himself  a 
name  not  alone  in  medicine,  but  in  literature. 
Some  of  his  poems  were  worthy  to  stand  be 
side  those  of  Henry  Timlow  or  Paul  Hayne. 
Among  the  pleasantest  recollections  of  this 
period  are  those  that  cluster  around  the 
naval  contingent  of  Portsmouth.  The  men 
of  our  army  and  navy  are  gallant  gentlemen, 
cordial  and  unaffected,  and  wherever  and 
whenever  one  meets  them  one  is  in  good 
society.  The  wives  of  naval  officers  often 
endure  enforced  separation  from  their  hus 
bands  through  the  necessities  of  the  service, 
but  they  have  the  compensation  of  enjoying 
a  lifelong  courtship.  The  naval  people 
formed  a  coterie  of  their  own,  but  it  was  the 


A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  211 

privilege  of  some  of  us  to  mingle  with  them 
in  agreeable  friendship. 

Among  the  most  lasting  associations  of  my 
life  have  been  friendships  established  at  this 
time  with  naval  people  not  only,  but  with 
other  Northern  residents  in  Norfolk.  Society 
at  the  time  had  many  interweaving  circles 
and  had  groups  that  maintained  themselves 
in  aloofness  from  each  other,  touching  like 
balls  of  ivory  but  never  fusing.  Certain  in 
cidents  amusing  in  the  retrospect  were  any 
thing  but  diverting  when  they  occurred. 
Those  who  remember  the  hard  facts  set  down 
in  "  A  Fool's  Errand  "  may  have  a  faint  idea 
of  the  hostility  felt  and  expressed  towards 
those  good  men  and  women  who  were  con 
cerned  with  the  education  of  the  freedmen. 
To  be  a  negro  teacher  was  to  be  socially 
ostracized  and  treated  with  silent  contempt, 
if  not  with  avowed  disdain.  A  friend  of 
mine  to  this  day  steadfast,  staunch  and  true, 
was  not  to  be  hindered  in  taking  the  part  of 
these  despised  home  missionaries.  He  and 
his  sweet  wife  who,  as  it  happened,  was 
Southern  born,  had  the  courage  of  their  con 
victions,  entertained  the  young  women  who 
taught  the  coloured  children,  and  in  every  way 
showed  them  kindness.  In  consequence,  this 


212  FEOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

man's  business  interests  suffered  and  he  and 
his  family  were  included  in  the  dislike  felt 
for  those  they  championed.  The  insurance 
companies  refused  to  take  a  risk  on  his  prop 
erty,  and  women  who  might  have  been  proud 
to  be  the  guests  of  his  wife  or  to  receive  her 
beneath  their  roofs  declined  so  much  as 
to  bow  to  her  on  the  street.  Her  serene 
patience  was  now  and  then  taxed  by  the  ultra 
chivalry  of  her  husband.  On  the  occasion 
of  a  fair  held  by  the  coloured  brethren  to  raise 
funds  for  the  repair  of  their  church  they 
tried  in  vain  to  hire  a  piano,  and  on  having 
a  piano  to  enliven  the  scene  they  had  set 
their  hearts.  An  appeal  was  made  to  my 
friend,  and  he  not  desiring  to  rent  an  instru 
ment  on  false  pretenses  sent  a  laconic  note 
to  his  wife.  She  was  a  brilliant  performer 
and  among  her  wedding  presents  was  a  piano 
that  was  the  pride  of  her  home.  Imagine 
this  word  dropped  suddenly  into  her  lap,  as 
she  sat  on  her  veranda  among  the  roses. 

"  Dearest,  let  these  men  have  our  piano. 
I  will  explain  when  I  come  home."  Her 
vow  to  love,  honour  and  obey  had  been  made 
so  lately  that  its  freshness  was  all  unworn. 
She  interpreted  its  significance  literally,  and 
without  protest  or  delay,  but  with  inward 


A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  213 

misgivings,  permitted  four  burly  men,  their 
black,  clumsy  hands  unused  to  the  labour 
they  undertook,  to  carry  her  beloved  posses 
sion  down  the  steps  of  the  porch,  bumping  it 
as  they  went,  and  she  saw  it  lifted  into  their 
wagon  and  borne  away.  In  due  course  of 
time  it  came  back  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
and  at  considerable  cost  was  renovated.  She 
smilingly  told  me  not  long  ago  that  in 
later  life  she  had  learned  to  take  counsel 
of  prudence  when  prudence  and  charity 
clashed. 

My  neighbours  both  Southern  and  North 
ern  were  for  the  most  part  so  strongly  indi- 
vidual  that  I  see  them  as  if  their  portraits 
were  hung  in  a  photograph  gallery.  There 
was  Gilbert  Walker,  tall  erect  and  distin 
guished  for  manly  beauty,  towering  like  Saul 
above  his  fellows,  a  neighbour  who  became 
Governor  of  Virginia  in  this  reconstruction 
period.  His  wife  from  Binghamton,  New 
York,  whence  also  Mr.  Walker  came,  had  the 
charm  and  dignity  that  fitted  her  to  stand 
by  his  side  in  a  season  of  great  difficulty, 
conciliating  every  one  and  promoting  no 
animosity. 

There  was  Judge  Dorman,  courtliest  and 
most  dignified  of  men,  over  whose  beautiful 


214  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

home  presided  a  wife  whom  to  know  was  to 
admire. 

But  of  these  Northern  friends  I  think  less 
to-day  than  of  a  dear  Southern  matron  who 
was  to  me  a  benignant  angel  of  goodness 
while  I  was  yet  a  stranger  in  a  strange  city. 

I  recall,  too,  another  who  lives  in  memory 
chiefly  as  the  most  winning  of  talkers  and 
the  most  inveterate  of  borrowers  who  ever 
crossed  my  path.  There  was  absolutely 
nothing  in  the  realm  of  housekeeping  that 
sooner  or  later  this  lady  did  not  ask  as  a 
loan,  and  I  am  sure  she  did  so  from  the  mo 
tive  which  induced  the  Hebrew  women  of 
old  to  borrow  what  they  wanted  from  their 
Egyptian  neighbours.  There  was  in  this 
lady's  opinion  no  harm  in  spoiling  the  Phi 
listines,  and  Philistines  we  were  in  her  sight. 
I  loaned  her  my  best  clothes  and  my  lace 
mantilla,  the  new  bonnet  I  had  not  yet  worn 
and  the  parasol  that  I  hoped  to  unfurl  in 
pristine  splendour  over  my  own  head.  I  lent 
her  sugar  and  coffee  and  cake  and  bread  and 
furniture.  Whether  she  duly  returned  my 
goods  or  retained  them  at  discretion  we  re 
mained  on  good  terms.  She  was  a  born 
raconteur  and  had  the  art  of  telling  a  story 
so  cleverly  that  her  presence  dispelled 


A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  215 

tedium  and  insured  a  gratifying  success 
whenever  she  was  a  guest  at  a  social  festiv 
ity.  She  was  not  unlike,  in  her  ability  to 
chat  pleasingly,  most  women  of  her  period 
in  the  Old  Dominion.  In  a  certain  social 
queenliness  not  in  the  least  lessened  by  a 
sadly  diminished  fortune,  she  bore  all  before 
her. 

One  afternoon  her  youngest  boy,  a  hand 
some  little  fellow  of  ten,  had  violated  the 
law  that  prohibited  swimming  in  the  day 
time  at  a  point  adjacent  to  his  home.  He 
and  a  half  dozen  little  chaps  of  his  own  age 
were  arrested  by  a  United  States  officer,  the 
city  being  then  under  martial  law,  and  were 
taken  to  the  guard-house.  When  the  news 
was  brought  to  his  mother  she  undauntedly 
sallied  forth  and  stepping  into  the  presence 
of  the  lieutenant  in  charge,  greeted  him 
with  the  utmost  courtesy  and  informed  him 
that  she  had  come  to  take  those  foolish 
children  home  at  once.  The  lieutenant  de 
murred,  but  the  lady  was  firm.  "  Their  re 
maining  here  is  not  to  be  considered,"  she 
said  with  the  air  of  a  reigning  sovereign. 
"  Fines  would  have  to  be  paid,"  intimated 
the  officer.  "  Fines ! "  replied  the  lady. 
"  Where  should  we  get  money  to  pay  them  ? 


216  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

You  have  already  taken  all  we  have.  Pray 
let  me  consume  no  more  of  your  time.  Let 
me  have  the  children  immediately." 

"  You  will  be  responsible  for  their  not 
transgressing  again  ?  "  said  the  lieutenant, 
not  reluctant  to  release  the  culprits,  and 
with  a  gracious  wave  of  her  hand  and  a 
pleasant  word,  his  visitor  assured  him  that 
there  should  be  no  further  infraction  of  the 
law.  "  I'll  speak  for  my  boy,"  she  said, 
"  and  I'll  take  it  on  me  to  say  that  none  of 
these  boys  shall  in  any  way  offend  again." 
So  she  and  they  departed  in  peace. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  a  brick  oven 
was  made  while  I  lived  in  Norfolk.  The 
presiding  genius  in  my  kitchen  was  Aunt 
Hannah,  superb  as  an  empress  in  her  bear 
ing,  black  as  ebony  and  straight  as  an  oak 
tree.  Her  magnificent  carriage  of  head  and 
shoulders  was  the  result  of  "  toting "  bur 
dens  on  her  head  in  childhood  and  girlhood. 
Her  boast  was  that  in  her  teens  she  could 
dance  with  a  pail  of  water  on  her  head  with 
out  spilling  a  drop.  Her  corn  bread,  her 
white  loaves,  her  roast  and  broiled  meat  had 
a  taste  that  no  chef  of  princely  salary  in  a 
modern  hotel  could  impart.  She  would 
bake  her  breakfast  breads  in  a  spider  set  on 


A  SOUTHEEN  TOWN  217 

the  coals,  and  nothing  that  I  have  eaten 
since  has  had  their  delicious  flavour.  She 
had  a  meek  little  husband  who  fetched  and 
carried  l  for  her  as  if  he  had  been  a  boy 
though  he  was  some  years  her  senior. 

When  we  moved  from  one  house  to 
another,  the  distance  not  being  very  great, 
the  family  walked,  and  great  was  my  as 
tonishment  to  behold  Aunt  Hannah  and 
Uncle  Ed  arriving  in  state  in  a  carriage 
drawn  by  two  horses  driven  by  a  hackman 
of  impressive  dignity.  Feeling  slightly  dis 
posed  to  resent  this  display  on  her  part 
I  inquired  why  she  had  chosen  to  drive 
when  her  mistress  walked  ?  "  Law,  honey," 
she  said,  laughing  until  her  whole  frame 
shook,  "  I'se  got  de  dinner  to  cook.  I  done 
thought  all  about  it,  and  I  'rived  at  de  con 
clusion  dat  Ed  and  I  better  come  dis  away. 
You  can  sit  still  and  fold  yo'  hands.  Den, 
too,"  she  went  on,  "  I  want  dat  cook  next 
door  to  see  me  fust  time  steppin'  out  of  a 
carriage." 

One  had  to  learn  the  dispositions  of 
coloured  servants  in  those  days.  They  were 
new  to  freedom  and  scarcely  understood  it. 
They  were  simple-hearted  and  very  much 
like  children  in  need  of  guidance  and  re- 


218  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

straint.  Northern  women  did  not  invari 
ably  receive  their  respect  as  Southern 
matrons  did.  Accustomed  to  the  prompt 
ness  and  energy  of  housekeeping  in  North 
ern  kitchens,  the  Northern  matron  exacted 
both  too  much  and  too  little.  She  failed  to 
comprehend  the  easy  good-nature  and  the 
unhurried  leisure  of  her  cook  and  house 
maid.  She  mistook  their  familiarity,  affec 
tionate  and  respectful,  for  impertinence,  and 
reproved  them  accordingly.  Where  the 
Southern  mistress  knew  how  to  govern,  to 
leave  the  reins  loose  on  occasion  and  to  draw 
them  tightly  when  necessary,  her  Northern 
sister  grew  discouraged  and  very  likely  sent 
home  for  an  Irish  or  German  maid.  Wash 
ing  and  ironing,  for  instance,  were  not  com 
pleted  in  the  orthodox  New  England  fashion 
on  Monday  and  Tuesday.  The  laundry 
work  was  apt  to  drag  until  the  end  of  the 
week,  but  it  was  well  done  and  satisfactory 
when  at  last  it  was  finished.  The  principle 
on  which  it  was  accomplished  was  ingenu 
ously  explained  to  me  by  a  certain  very 
competent  Sarah.  "  Where's  de  use,"  she 
said,  "  in  my  gettin'  through  dis  befo'  Satur 
day  ?  You  all  fin'  somethin'  else  fo'  me  to 
do." 


A  SOUTHERN  TOWN  219 

This  same  Sarah,  a  treasure  in  other  re 
spects,  had  her  periods  of  eclipse.  When  the 
desire  to  drink  came  upon  her  she  disap 
peared,  and  suffered  no  one  to  see  her  in  her 
lapses  from  virtue.  She  would  be  gone  a 
week  at  a  time,  come  back  ready  for  three  or 
four  months  of  steady  service  and  then  sink 
below  the  surface  again. 

I  have  looked  from  my  window  in  the 
early  morning  and  have  seen  emerging  from 
my  kitchen  door  a  half  dozen  dusky  figures 
who  slipped  away,  soft-footed,  and  were  seen 
no  more  that  day.  I  knew  perfectly  well 
that  my  cook  gave  shelter  for  the  night,  to 
her  friends,  and  I  did  not  remonstrate,  for 
the  kitchen  was  in  the  yard  a  little  distance 
from  the  house,  and  it  and  the  rooms  above 
it  were  supposed  to  be  hers.  If  she  wanted 
to  be  hospitable  I  did  not  oppose  her. 

When  I  first  began  housekeeping  in  the 
South  I  observed  to  the  amusement  of  my 
neighbours  that  they  might  carry  a  key 
basket  if  they  chose,  but  that  I  had  never 
locked  anything  up  and  did  not  propose  to 
begin  then.  Only  a  few  weeks  passed  before 
I  learned  that  my  coloured  servitors  imagined 
themselves  free  to  take  what  they  wanted 
from  pantry  shelves  left  unguarded.  This 


220  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

was  not  so  much  because  they  wished  to  be 
dishonest  or  had  the  habit  of  stealing,  but 
from  a  half- formed  idea  that  whatever  was 
intended  for  daily  use  in  the  way  of  food 
and  left  open  was  to  be  used  as  they  liked. 
The  bunch  of  keys  and  the  little  basket  in 
which  they  reposed  became  my  constant 
companion,  and  I  learned  to  give  out  each 
morning  flour,  butter,  eggs,  sugar,  whatever 
else  was  to  be  used  for  the  day,  and  then 
turned  the  key  on  the  storeroom.  This  was 
never  resented.  The  good  old  aunties  were 
used  to  it  and  did  not  understand  any  other 
method  of  procedure. 

On  the  whole,  there  was  much  less  friction 
and  far  more  amiability  than  might  have 
been  expected  in  the  social  relations  of  every 
one,  rich  and  poor,  lettered  and  illiterate, 
white  and  black  in  those  days  in  Virginia 
just  after  the  war.  Very  soon  after  battles 
are  over  Nature  spreads  the  scarred  fields 
with  cloth  of  gold  and  velvet  turf.  So,  in 
hearts  that  have  been  at  enmity  Peace  drops 
a  kindly  balm,  and  there  are  more  flowers 
than  thorns  as  the  days  go  by. 


XVII 

MY  LITERARY  MASTERS 


the  Bible,  Homer  and 
Shakespeare,"  said  a  friend, 
glancing  at  me  from  the  bow  of 
the  boat  as  we  glided  over  the  blue  waters  of 
the  Merrimac,  "  I  should  not  mind  being 
cast  away  on  a  desert  island.  I  could  dis 
pense  with  all  the  books  that  have  ever  been 
written,  and  feel  myself  in  good  company  if 
these  were  my  companions." 

As  for  me,  I  have  never  arrived  at  a 
definite  decision,  the  Bible  excepted,  as  to 
the  books  that  I  should  prefer  to  all  others  if 
condemned  to  solitary  existence.  The  books 
that  have  influenced  my  thought  and  en 
tered  into  my  experience  have  been  many, 
and  at  different  seasons  and  in  contrasting 
situations  I  have  cared  for  different  books. 
I  am  convinced  that  my  debt  for  help  in 
time  of  need  is  larger  to  the  writers  of 
essays  and  biography  than  to  the  poets  and 
che  novelists. 

Among  poets,  those  at  whose  feet  I  have 
221 


222  FIIOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

loved  to  sit,  whose  music  has  charmed  me 
and  whose  wisdom  has  been  illuminating  in 
hours  of  gloom,  have  been  Milton,  Tennyson, 
Browning  and  Whittier.  I  love  the  long 
roll  of  Homer's  verse,  and  have  found  in 
spiration  in  Virgil  and  Dante.  English 
literature,  however,  especially  of  the  Eliza 
bethan  and  Victorian  periods,  has  meant 
more  to  me  than  the  lore  of  the  ancients, 
and  I  never  tire  of  turning  again  and  again 
to  the  two  magnificent  poets  who  have  lived 
in  my  own  time,  and  whose  voices  were 
hushed  only  a  little  while  ago. 

The  poetry  of  Tennyson,  so  profoundly 
philosophical,  so  devoutly  religious  and  so 
finished  in  style  and  diction  seems  to  me 
like  a  great  cathedral  lifting  its  glorious 
height  and  its  tapering  spires  to  the  vaulted 
sky. 

One  has  no  difficulty  in  understanding 
Tennyson,  even  when  the  truths  he  utters 
are  the  most  sublime.  His  art  has  the 
merit  of  lucidity.  In  his  orchestra  no  in 
strument  is  ever  out  of  tune. 

He  loved  nature  and  he  adored  the  God  of 
nature,  and  whatever  he  said  was  at  once  a 
marvel  of  accuracy  and  of  beauty.  I  could 
spare  nothing  for  myself  that  Tennyson 


MY  LITERARY  MASTERS  223 

wrote,  from  his  earliest  to  his  latest  verse. 
I  gladly  acknowledge  him  as  a  master  who 
has  taught  me  much,  as  a  musician  who  has 
given  me  songs  at  morning  and  evening, 
and  cheered  me  in  the  night  season. 

To  love  Tennyson  as  I  do  and  equally  to 
appreciate  and  almost  worship  Browning  is 
apparently  a  contradiction  in  terms.  Never 
were  two  men  less  similar.  Tennyson  hid 
himself  from  the  public,  and  his  habits 
resembled  those  of  the  hermit  thrush.  To 
the  few  who  shared  his  confidence  he  was 
singularly  frank  and  childlike,  but  he  was 
British  to  the  core,  his  house  was  his  castle 
and  he  not  merely  disliked  intrusion  and  re 
sented  it,  but  held  himself  aloof  from  social 
engagements  for  which  he  had  neither  time 
nor  inclination.  He  lived  for  and  in  the 
circle  of  his  kindred,  a  group  of  dear  friends 
and  the  art  to  which  he  paid  the  devotion  of 
his  entire  life. 

Browning  shone  in  the  drawing-room,  was 
a  brilliant  talker,  and  his  expansive  manner 
of  greeting  acquaintances  placed  people  at 
their  ease,  and  gave  those  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact  a  peculiar  delight.  Tenny 
son  and  Carlyle  might  spend  a  whole  even 
ing  together  without  the  exchange  of  a 


224  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

word,  and  separate  with  entire  satisfaction 
after  their  silent  interchange  of  thought. 
Browning,  when  Carlyle  in  his  old  age  went 
with  William  Allingham  to  return  a  call, 
fairly  enveloped  the  sage  in  the  radiance 
and  sunshine  of  a  welcome  that  almost 
reached  hyperbole.  Browning  might  have 
been  an  architect,  a  historian,  a  sculptor,  a 
painter  or  a  musician.  He  had  a  cosmopoli 
tan  knowledge  of  facts,  and  was  versatile  in 
an  extraordinary  degree.  Browning,  like 
Tennyson,  was  a  disciple  of  Christ,  and  his 
works  are  characterized  by  faith  and  devo 
tion.  He  had  sincere  reverence  for  woman 
and  his  rugged  verse  preaches  an  austere 
morality. 

If,  with  Tennyson,  one  walks  the  aisles  of 
great  cathedrals,  with  Browning  one  ascends 
the  steep  mountainsides  and  gazes  from 
their  summits  across  a  vast  territory,  across 
smiling  landscapes,  foaming  rivers  and  bil 
lowy  seas.  Browning  probed  the  depths  of 
the  human  soul,  and  laid  bare  the  wounds 
of  the  social  body  with  the  keen  unerring 
certainty  of  the  surgeon's  knife.  One  can 
not  get  at  the  heart  of  Browning  without 
prolonged  and  severe  study,  but  one  is  re 
paid  for  every  exertion  when  Browning  is 


MY  LITERARY  MASTERS  225 

revealed  in  his  fullness  and  majesty.  I  once 
spent  a  whole  summer  on  "  The  Ring  and 
the  Book,"  and  at  the  end  felt  that  my 
labour  had  not  been  in  vain.  The  shelf  on 
which  stand  my  volumes  of  Browning  has 
for  me  a  personal  interest  so  intimate  and 
precious  that  nothing  would  induce  me  to 
exchange  those  well-worn  books  for  any 
other  edition. 

For  years  it  was  a  custom  with  me 
amounting  nearly  to  a  rite  to  read  "  Para 
dise  Lost "  and  "  The  Ode  to  the  Nativity  " 
at  least  once  in  the  twelvemonth.  Milton's 
accumulation  of  learning,  his  resplendent 
vocabulary  and  his  daring  upward  flights 
are  unparalleled  in  the  range  of  literature. 
I  could  live  without  most  of  the  great 
masters  of  poetry  and  make  no  moan,  but 
the  three  whom  I  have  here  mentioned  have 
been  my  teachers,  and  it  would  be  a  heart 
felt  grief  should  memory  some  time  prove 
treacherous  and  drop  the  wealth  I  have 
committed  to  it  from  their  amazing  store. 

There  are  moods  in  which  I  love  Keats, 
Shelley,  Wordsworth  and  Campbell.  There 
are  hours  when  Emerson  and  Longfellow, 
chief  among  American  singers,  give  me  joy. 
Probably  Longfellow  and  Emerson  are  re- 


226  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

garded  by  most  critics  as  poets  of  a  higher 
order  than  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  To 
me,  in  that  he  has  ministered  to  my  hours 
of  sorrow,  and  uplifted  me  in  my  hours  of 
gladness,  he  is  greater  than  they.  When  in 
the  gathering  dusk  I  can  sit  by  the  fire  and 
recall  "The  Eternal  Goodness,"  or  "My 
Psalm,"  it  is  as  if  a  breath  of  heaven  were 
wafted  through  the  room.  I  have  heard  a 
thousand  young  girls  in  college  singing  at 
vespers  those  familiar  stanzas  of  Whittier 
beginning  with 

We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps 

To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down ; 
In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps 

For  Him  no  depths  can  drown. 
But  warm,  sweet,  tender  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  He, 
And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet 

And  love  its  Galilee, 

and  my  eyes  have  filled  with  tears,  and  my 
heart  has  poured  itself  out  in  prayer  and 
praise  for  the  message  God  gave  our  Quaker 
poet.  His  lyrics  belong  to  the  altar  and  the 
fireside,  the  closet  and  the  home.  During 
the  Civil  War  his  martial  poems  had  now 
the  clang  of  steel,  and  again  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet  blast. 


MY  LITERARY  MASTERS  227 

Whittier  possessed  the  fervour  of  the  old 
prophets,  their  sternness,  their  rhythm  and 
their  glow.  Once  it  was  my  privilege  to 
spend  an  hour  in  his  company.  I  met  him 
in  Amesbury,  not  in  his  own  home,  but  in 
that  of  a  cousin  whom  he  was  visiting. 
There  came  into  the  library  where  I  waited 
to  meet  him  under  the  wing  of  his  friend  and 
mine,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  three  beau 
tiful  old  people.  They  were  tall  and  spare, 
with  dark  eyes  and  clear-cut  profiles.  The 
age  of  each  was  beyond  seventy-five,  but 
they  made  an  impression  of  undimmed  youth 
and  childlike  sweetness  beneath  their  snowy 
hair.  One  of  Whittier's  cousins  was  a  man 
of  his  own  age,  nearly  fourscore  :  the  other, 
a  sweet  old  gentlewoman  in  the  exquisitely 
spotless  dress  of  the  Friends,  with  quaint  cap 
and  kerchief.  They  used  the  plain  speech, 
saying  "  thee  ?  and  "  thou,"  and  to  my  de 
light  they  addressed  me  by  my  name.  I 
have  never  forgotten  the  gracious  benediction 
that  came  to  me  when  Whittier,  took  my 
hand  and  said,  "  It  is  our  Margaret  Sangster. 
I  am  glad  to  see  thee."  His  talk  that  day 
drifts  back  to  me  over  the  intervening  years 
with  electric  flashes  of  humour,  a  wistful 
seriousness  and  a  benign  sincerity.  From 


228  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

my  masters  in  poetry  I  cannot  drop  the 
name,  honoured  and  beloved,  of  John  Green- 
leaf  Whittier. 

Turning  to  the  essayists  I  pay  my  debt  of 
gratitude  to  Hazlitt,  Lamb,  Macauley,  Carlyle 
and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  The  place  of 
the  essay  in  literature  is  that  of  the  corner 
stone  on  which  an  edifice  may  be  built.  The 
essay  may  include  history,  invade  the  novel 
and  occasionally  penetrate  into  poetry.  Not 
one  of  the  essayists  whom  I  have  named,  each 
of  whom  has  taught  me  many  things,  to 
each  of  whom  I  am  under  deep  obligation, 
has  yet  been  worth  to  me  for  daily  use  and 
wont  so  much  as  John  Ruskin.  It  would 
be  impossible  for  me  to  overstate  my  apprecia 
tion  of  Ruskin's  felicitous  style  and  my  love 
for  the  charm  and  melody  of  his  prose. 

His  choice  of  words  is  without  a  flaw. 
The  word  that  fits  his  thought  is  exactly 
chosen  and  shines  in  its  surrounding  setting 
with  the  lustre  of  a  jewel.  Perhaps  he  is 
sometimes  too  affluent  in  metaphor,  some 
times  over-fond  of  alliteration,  and  undoubt 
edly  he  is  often  too  caustic  in  blame  and  too 
enthusiastic  in  praise,  but  he  was  a  loyal  lover 
and  a  good  hater,  and  in  the  truest  sense  of 
the  word,  a  courtly  gentleman.  Among  my 


MY  LITERARY  MASTERS  229 

masters  in  literature  I  rejoice  to  pay  a  tribute 
to  John  Ruskin,  tender  and  true,  knightly 
and  brave,  the  friend  of  the  poor  and  the 
servant  of  Christ. 

Three  men  have  lately  gone  from  us  who 
have  left  vacant  places  in  my  heart.  The 
world  is  poorer  for  the  loss  of  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne,  a  poet  whose  prose  was 
richer  than  his  verse.  The  latter  was  open 
to  criticism;  the  former  is  unsurpassed. 
George  Meredith  had  qualities  that  reminded 
the  reader  of  Browning.  His  "  Diana  of  the 
Crossways  "  must  be  considered  his  master 
piece  by  the  lovers  of  good  novels  since  it 
well  bears  the  test  of  reading  a  third  and 
a  fourth  time.  For  F.  Marion  Crawford, 
dying  in  the  meridian  of  his  years,  all  lovers 
of  literature  must  feel  deep  regret.  His  was 
the  art  preeminently  of  telling  a  story  well, 
and  his  group  of  Italian  novels,  in  which  the 
same  characters  appear  and  reappear,  possesses 
a  real  claim  to  immortality. 

Shall  I  name  here  the  novelists  who  rank 
highest  in  my  affection  ?  George  Eliot,  who 
touched  high-water  mark  in  "  Middlemarch," 
Charles  Dickens  whose  "  Tale  of  Two  Cities  " 
and  "  Little  Dorrit  "  are  my  chief  favourites 
where  it  is  difficult  to  make  a  choice,  Will- 


230  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

iam  Makepeace  Thackeray  whose  "  Vanity 
Fair  "  and  "  The  Newcomes  "  are  among  my 
treasures,  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  whose 
"  Kidnapped  "  and  "  David  Balfour  "  I  read 
again  and  again  with  never-ceasing  pleasure. 
I  cannot  omit  a  tribute  to  George  Macdonald 
whose  mysticism  and  other-worldliness  be 
long  to  the  sphere  of  the  preacher  as  fully  as 
to  that  of  the  novelist. 

Margaret  Oliphant  must  have  a  place  in 
this  company  of  great  ones.  In  the  variety 
of  her  stories,  from  "  Margaret  Maitland  "  to 
"  Kirsteen "  she  excels  any  contemporary 
writer.  Producing  an  enormous  amount  of 
fiction  and  at  the  same  time  writing  biog 
raphy  and  history,  she  seldom  fell  below  the 
highest  standard.  Her  pictures  of  English 
and  Scottish  interiors  are  worthy  a  painter  of 
the  first  order,  and  her  portrait  gallery  of 
lovely  'maidens  and  fair  matrons  can  never 
fade.  She  was  weaker  than  George  Eliot 
in  her  delineation  of  men.  She  far  out 
stripped  her  in  her  comprehension  of  women. 
Her  "  Life  of  Edward  Irving  "  is  a  classic, 
and  her  memoir  of  her  kinsman,  Lawrence 
Oliphant,  is  very  nearly  as  fine. 

I  cannot  leave  this  page  without  a  back 
ward  glance.  I  should  be  derelict  indeed  if 


MY  LITERARY  MASTERS  231 

I  did  not  here  speak  of  Jane  Austen,  as  much 
a  writer  for  to-day  as  for  yesterday,  and  of 
Charlotte  and  Emily  Bronte,  those  gifted 
daughters  of  the  Haworth  Rectory,  who  took 
the  world  by  storm. 

Should  I  forsake  this  part  of  my  subject 
without  a  word  of  appreciation  for  American 
writers  of  fiction  my  story  would  be  incom 
plete.  Of  those  whose  work  abides  let  me 
first  name  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  and  next  one 
whose  genius  shows  no  diminution  and  whose 
latest  novels  are  stronger  than  his  earliest, 
our  beloved  and  honoured  William  Dean 
Howells.  No  one  who  esteems  literary  work 
at  its  highest  and  fiction  at  its  best  can  for  an 
instant  forget  the  services  Mr.  Howells  has 
freely  given  to  our  English  tongue.  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  have  known  him  in  personal  as 
sociation,  to  be  familiar  with  his  methods 
and  aware  of  his  unfailing  courtesy  to 
novices  in  the  literary  field. 

In  biography  I  am  as  much  at  a  loss  to 
make  definite  selection  as  I  am  when  into  my 
den  there  drifts  on  the  incoming  tide  of  the 
morning  mail  a  perplexing  inquiry  from 
some  one  about  my  favourite  flower  or  my 
favourite  colour  or  my  favourite  character  in 
history.  Who  shall  decide  questions  so  sub- 


232  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

tie  :  who  shall  choose  among  flowers,  from 
the  daisy  of  June  to  the  goldenrod  of  Sep 
tember  ?  Which  of  the  characters  standing 
like  beacon-lights  in  history  shall  one  venture 
to  say  she  cares  for  most,  all  the  way  from 
Moses  and  Samuel  and  David  to  Washington 
and  Lincoln  and  McKinley  ?  One  has  many 
preferences  and  life  has  many  aspects,,  So  it 
is  in  the  realm  of  biography.  The  story  of 
any  human  life,  however  obscure,  has  for  me 
a  positive  attraction,  and  I  have  frequently 
bought  at  a  second-hand  shop  an  odd  volume 
containing  the  life  and  letters  of  some  one 
whose  name  I  have  never  heard,  and  in  that 
recital  of  a  life  unknown  to  fame  I  have  found 
meat  for  sustenance  and  honey  for  sweet 
ness. 

I  repeat  that  the  story  of  any  human  life 
simply  told  is  helpful  to  those  at  present  liv 
ing  on  the  earth  and  faring  onward  to  an 
other  world.  Longfellow  says 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
"We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And  departing  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  lives  of  earth's  great 
men,  her  mighty  men  of  valour,  her  states- 


MY  LITERARY  MASTERS  233 

men,  warriors  and  men  of  renown  that  give 
us  aid.  Lives  of  heroic  missionaries  toiling 
on  through  hard  and  uneventful  years,  lives 
of  young  girls  early  called  to  the  home-land, 
lives  of  martyrs  and  confessors,  lives  of  quiet 
women  whose  sphere  of  duty  was  limited  or 
whose  larger  sphere  was  filled  with  earnest 
activit}'-,  these  lives  bless  the  world. 

I  suppose  I  cannot  speak  of  this  depart 
ment  of  literature  in  the  identical  sense  in 
which  I  speak  of  poetry  and  fiction,  of  science 
and  philosophy,  yet  if  those  who  write  biog 
raphy  have  not  been  my  literary  masters, 
they  have  been  in  a  very  intimate  and  pro 
found  relation  my  literary  friends  and  ex 
emplars.  The  autobiography  of  Mrs.  Oli- 
phant,  touching  record  that  it  is  of  a  brave 
life  spent  in  the  service  of  the  home  dear 
ones,  thrills  me  as  often  as  I  read  it.  Au 
gustus  Hare's  "  Memorials  of  a  Quiet  Life  " 
and  his  "  Life  of  the  Baroness  Bunson  "  have 
become  incorporated  with  my  tenderest  recol 
lections  and  most  hallowed  hours.  The  auto 
biography  of  Anthony  Trollope,  that  robust, 
stout-hearted  man  of  letters,  has  meant  much 
to  me  as  to  many  another  literary  toiler. 
"  The  Life  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  "  is  a 
tonic  and  a  cordial,  an  inspiration  and  a  call 


234  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

to  labour,  let  it  enter  any  home.  Lady 
Burne-Jones  in  her  biography  of  her  gifted 
husband,  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones,  intro 
duces  us  into  the  midst  of  that  interesting 
pre-Raphaelite  group,  every  one  of  whom 
was  individual  in  his  manner  of  work  and 
all  of  whom  wrought  to  purpose. 

Mr.  Robert  E.  Speer,  in  several  unpretend 
ing  and  brief  biographies  of  valiant  young 
people  who  early  finished  their  task  and 
heard  the  Master's  call  to  higher  service,  has 
opened  a  window,  with  an  outlook  towards 
heaven,  in  every  Christian  household  into 
which  these  books  of  his  are  brought. 

There  are  books  partly  biographical,  such 
as  the  beautiful  monograph  entitled  "  My 
Father  "  in  which  Reverend  Doctor  W.  Rob 
ertson  Nicoll  takes  us  into  the  manse  near 
Aberdeen  where  the  country  minister  gradu 
ally  accumulated  a  library  of  many  thousand 
volumes.  Another  book  of  the  same  char 
acter,  but  wholly  opposite  in  treatment  and 
intention  is  "  Father  and  Son  "  by  Edmund 
Gosse,  and  a  book  perfect  of  its  kind  under 
this  special  heading  is  J.  M.  Barrie's  "  Mar 
garet  Ogilvie."  I  have  not  space  for  a  cata 
logue.  Should  I  try  to  make  one  the  rest  of 
this  book  would  not  be  written. 


MY  LITERARY  MASTERS  235 

Let  Longfellow  again  epitomize  the  mis 
sion  and  the  message  of  sterling  biography. 

Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant, 
Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead. 

Act,  act  in  the  living  present, 
Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead. 


XVIII 

THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS 

I  SOMETIMES  ask  myself  whether  I 
would  if  I  could  live  my  life  over  again. 
Then  follows  naturally  in  vague  specu 
lation  the  inquiry,  "  Which  portion  of  it  has 
been,  on  the  whole,  the  most  interesting,  the 
happiest,  the  least  burdened  and  the  fullest 
of  hope  and  anticipation  ?  "  These  questions 
come  to  every  one.  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  in  a  sparkling  lyric  drew  the  picture 
of  a  man  in  his  prime,  his  wife  and  children 
around  him,  sitting  with  eyes  half-closed 
and  dreaming  of  the  past.  The  man  wanted 
to  be  once  more  a  boy.  An  angel  appeared 
offering  him  the  chance  to  have  the  vanished 
boyhood  restored  if  he  would  resign  the  sat 
isfactions  of  his  manhood.  In  the  end 

"The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
'  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again 
And  be  a  husband,  too.'  " 

In  an  enchanting  story  by  William  Morris 
we  are  transported  to  a  glittering  plain  on 

236 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS  237 

the  farther  shore  of  the  sea  that  we  must 
cross  to  reach  the  life  immortal.  The  story 
is  utterly  pagan,  but  it  has  upon  it  the  sheen, 
diamond-threaded,  of  the  old  mythologies. 
On  the  shining  shore  that  they  have  reached 
after  weary  strife  and  hardships  nobly  borne, 
we  find  a  band  of  warriors  who  have  dropped 
old  age  and  forgotten  the  scars  of  the  world. 
They  have  stepped  into  the  glory  of  youth 
and  strength.  Alas,  as  they  have  tasted  the 
fountain  of  youth,  the  memory  of  their  past 
has  escaped  them  and  with  it  has  gone  the 
wealth  that  only  memory  hoards  for  the 
soul. 

The  Christian's  heaven  will  be  better 
than  this.  We  shall  put  on  youth  and 
strength  when  we  have  crossed  the  sea,  but 
we  shall  keep  our  memory  of  the  earth-life 
and  know  our  dear  ones  when  they  meet  us 
again.  For  this  consummation  we  can  well 
afford  to  wait.  It  is  only  a  wistful  yearning 
after  all  that  prompts  this  lingering  over 
other  days.  They  were  sweet  and  beauti 
ful,  but  so  are  these  in  which  we  live.  Day 
follows  day  in  ceaseless  march.  The  child 
by  imperceptible  degrees  grows  to  adoles 
cence,  the  young  people  married  or  single  go 
on  to  middle  age,  and  the  middle-aged  grow 


238  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

old.  Supremely  blessed  are  they  who  never 
lose  the  child-heart.  Other  losses  may  be 
accepted  without  demur,  but  whosoever  loses 
the  heart  of  the  child  is  bankrupt  in  hope 
and  joy  until  the  journey's  end. 

Those  were  beautiful  years  of  mine  that 
were  spent  in  the  twenties  and  early  thirties, 
years  so  care-free,  so  blithe,  so  buoyant  that  I 
often  fancy  that  another  woman  lived  them 
and  not  I.  There  were  children  growing  up 
in  the  home,  guests  were  coming  and  going 
constantly,  and  every  day  some  ship  of  joy 
came  gliding  into  harbour  with  sails  full  set 
and  a  favouring  breeze.  I  took  lightly  little 
disappointments  and  endured  without  a 
murmur  occasional  trials.  Nothing  could 
depress  a  spirit  as  elastic  as  that  which  was 
my  blissful  endowment.  I  rarely  felt  fa 
tigue.  I  thought  nothing  of  taking  long 
rides  across  country  on  horseback,  or  driving, 
if  need  were,  the  livelong  day. 

It  amuses  some  of  my  younger  kinsfolk 
to  hear  that  I  was  at  one  time  noted  much 
more  for  the  feathery  lightness  of  my  ome 
lets  and  the  golden  brown  of  my  breakfast 
muffins  than  for  bits  of  advice  in  the  shape 
of  letters  or  bits  of  song  in  the  shape  of 
poems.  Little  did  it  daunt  me  if  things 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS  239 

went  wrong  in  the  kitchen  or  the  markets 
failed  to  send  what  I  wanted  for  an  evening 
company.  I  was  a  resourceful  housekeeper, 
able  to  turn  my  hand  at  will  to  any  task. 
I  must  confess  that  I  did  not  like  sewing, 
but  I  happened  to  have  a  friend  who  did, 
and  I  well  remember  how  often  she  came 
to  me  with  thimble  and  needle,  tossing  off 
the  stockings  I  ought  to  have  darned  and 
the  garments  I  ought  to  have  mended,  with 
an  ease  and  thoroughness  that  were  simply 
amazing.  I  seem  to  have  given  her  little 
to  pay  for  her  kindness,  except  unstinted 
thanks.  Nevertheless,  she  who  had  fewer 
home  duties  than  I  assumed  for  me  the 
affectionate  tasks  of  a  sister  and  shared  my 
regard  as  a  sister  might  have  done.  She 
died  years  ago  before  her  golden  hair  had 
lost  its  brightness  or  her  cheek  its  bloom. 
If  we  did  not  take  pains  to  keep  our  friend 
ships  in  repair,  if  we  were  not  all  the  while 
making  new  friends,  how  lonely  we  should 
be  when  we  reached  the  home  stretch. 

We  had  friends  who  habitually  took  Sun 
day  night  supper  with  us.  They,  like  our 
selves,  were  from  the  North  and  we  had 
much  in  common.  Between  five  and  six  on 
Sunday  afternoon,  when  the  church  services 


240  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

and  Sunday-schools  were  over,  this  husband 
and  wife  would  arrive.  He  was  a  grave, 
rather  silent,  scholarly  man ;  she  a  light- 
hearted,  merry  little  woman  whose  nursery 
was  crowded.  Her  children  had  come 
rapidly  and  when  they  stood  in  a  row  one 
thought  of  a  stairway  with  steps  close 
together.  Those  Sunday  evenings  were  ex 
tremely  pleasant.  The  children  had  retired, 
supper  being  over,  and  we  would  sit  in 
summer  on  the  vine-shaded  veranda.  In 
winter  we  would  linger  in  the  low-ceiled 
library  where  books  lined  the  walls.  There 
were  plants  in  the  windows  and  pine-knots 
blazing  on  the  hearth.  We  would  fall  into 
intimate  talk.  There  is  something  ideal  in 
the  friendships  of  congenial  married  people 
who  are  on  the  same  general  standing-ground 
as  to  age  and  circumstances.  If  they  enter 
tain  similar  views  upon  politics  and  sympa 
thize  in  religious  convictions  they  are  sure 
to  find  stimulation  and  refreshment  when 
they  meet. 

One  Monday  morning  very  early  there 
was  a  knock  at  our  door  and  we  heard  the 
Major's  voice  calling  anxiously.  Nothing 
had  been  wrong  at  ten  o'clock  the  night  be 
fore,  but  we  knew  in  an  instant  that  he  had 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS  241 

not  come  from  the  other  end  of  town  before 
the  dawn  without  a  good  reason.  Soon  we 
were  enlightened.  "  The  baby  is  dying,"  he 
said.  "  She  has  been  poisoned.  Come  to 
us  as  quickly  as  you  can."  He  disappeared 
and  in  a  few  moments  we  followed  him, 
hurrying  through  the  silent  streets  with  a 
great  fear  tugging  at  our  hearts.  The  baby 
had  been  poisoned,  not  by  accident,  but  on 
purpose,  by  an  ignorant  and  vindictive  nurse 
maid  who  considered  herself  aggrieved  and 
took  this  dreadful  method  for  revenge. 
Fortunately  the  dear  little  thing  did  not  die. 
Through  the  hours  of  a  summer  day  her 
mother  and  I,  with  the  aid  of  two  excellent 
doctors,  fought  for  the  rescue  of  the  flutter 
ing  life,  and  at  sunset  she  was  out  of  danger. 
How  the  years  have  passed.  I  have  held 
the  children  of  that  baby  in  my  arms,  and 
I  may  yet  see  her  grandchildren. 

We  had  neighbourly  ways  of  helping  one 
another  in  that  Southern  town  where  the 
roses  were  so  sweet  and  the  lilies  so  white 
and  the  hearts  of  good  people  so  kind.  Were 
visitors  announced  unexpectedly,  and  had 
one  nothing  one  wished  to  set  before  them 
for  a  meal,  one's  next  door  neighbour  would 
without  hesitation  exchange  her  roast  chick- 


242  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

ens  and  her  cherry  pie  for  one's  left-over 
cold  meat  and  warmed-over  pudding.  If  it 
happened  to  a  hostess,  as  it  once  did  to  me, 
to  have  a  clean  sweep  made  by  a  predatory 
butler  of  everything  planned  for  a  dinner 
party,  the  butler,  of  course,  disappearing, 
too,  the  neighbours  were  ready  to  rush  to  the 
rescue. 

The  expected  guests  in  my  case  were  friends 
belosging  to  the  navy,  and  the  neighbours,  so 
eager  to  assist,  Southerners  who  had  not  yet 
ceased  to  grieve  over  the  defeat  of  secession. 
None  of  those  matrons  were  disposed  to 
censure  the  young  housekeeper  from  the 
North  who  had  arranged  her  festivity  to  the 
minutest  detail  before  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  had  gone  with  her  children  to 
spend  the  day  in  the  woods.  The  despair  of 
the  cook  and  my  bewilderment  at  the  situ 
ation  when  the  dire  catastrophe  burst  upon 
me,  are  as  fresh  in  mind  as  if  the  incident 
had  occurred  last  week,  as  fresh  in  mind 
also  is  the  fact  that  an  impromptu  dinner, 
rather  original  and  unconventional  and 
largely  composed  of  borrowed  viands,  went 
off  very  well.  Not  a  guest  suspected  that 
anything  had  been  amiss. 

If   again    it  happened   that  a   wife   and 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS  243 

mother  in  need  of  a  change  of  scene  was  ad 
vised  by  her  physician  to  take  an  outing 
away  from  home,  and  if  she  had  no  one 
with  whom  to  leave  her  children,  a  neigh 
bour  would  hospitably  open  her  doors  and 
invite  the  children  in  to  stay  during  their 
mother's  absence.  No  one  counted  the  cost 
of  such  an  invitation,  and  there  did  not 
loom  before  any  one's  mind  the  spectral  fear 
of  the  servants  that  is  a  formidable  bar  to 
hospitality  at  present.  Our  cooks  and  house 
maids  are  by  way  of  showing  us  plainly 
enough  that  they  survey  visitors  as  invaders 
of  their  rights,  and  whether  they  be  of  one 
country  or  another,  one  colour  or  one  creed, 
their  attitude  is  inimical  to  the  exercise  of 
hospitality. 

We  had  no  such  obstacles  to  encounter, 
for  the  coloured  people  who  served  us  had 
recently  emerged  from  an  atmosphere  in 
which  hospitality  was  taken  for  granted  like 
the  sunshine  and  the  air.  They  were  happi 
est  provided  they  were  not  hurried,  when 
the  house  was  full  and  there  was  the  stir 
and  excitement  of  visitors  about,  whether 
the  visitors  were  old  or  young.  To  think 
for  an  instant  whether  Aunt  Hannah  would 
be  annoyed  if  the  number  of  persons  for 


24:4:  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

whom  she  had  to  cook  was  doubled  or 
trebled  would  have  been  impossible  to  a 
matron  in  the  South  between  1865  and  1870. 
The  matron  is  to  be  congratulated  who  pos 
sesses  similar  independence  in  the  North  to 
day. 

In  the  service  of  a  friend  soon  after  the 
war  there  was  an  all-round  man  named 
John.  He  was  black  but  comely,  a  tall, 
handsome  fellow  in  his  prime.  John  was 
an  indispensable  and  efficient  outdoor  and 
indoor  man.  There  was  nothing  he  could 
not  and  little  he  did  not  do  in  managing  the 
household  of  his  mistress.  All  her  friends 
knew  and  every  one  respected  him.  He 
had  the  courtly  manner  of  the  Southern 
gentleman  whose  property  he  had  at  one 
time  been,  and  who  had  given  him  his  train 
ing.  John  had  a  young  wife,  a  pretty  little 
butterfly  of  a  woman  whom  we  also  knew. 
Caroline  did  laundry  work  in  her  home  and 
kept  the  hearth  bright  and  shining  for  John. 

One  night  when  as  usual  he  went  home 
after  the  day's  work,  he  found  sitting  with 
Caroline  a  woman,  gaunt- featured,  weary 
and  worn  with  the  toil  of  many  years  on  a 
rice  plantation  in  the  South.  I  mean  in  the 
South  beyond  Virginia,  the  bondage  of 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAYS  245 

which  the  negroes  of  Virginia  looked  upon 
with  unspeakable  dismay.  In  an  instant 
John  knew  who  this  was,  this  wayfarer  who 
had  discovered  that  ske  was  free,  and  had 
walked,  begging  every  step  of  her  way, 
back  to  her  old  home  and  the  husband  of 
her  youth.  They  had  belonged  to  different 
masters,  and  when  hers  died,  Meliss  had 
been  sold  as  part  of  the  estate,  a  young, 
strong  woman,  and  John  had  been  left. 

How  should  he  choose  between  Caroline 
and  Meliss?  The  choice  was  a  hard  one, 
but  John  decided  that  he  must  let  Caroline 
go  and  accept  again  as  his  wife  the  woman 
who  had  been  absent  from  him,  in  a  silence 
like  death,  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
The  coloured  people  at  that  time  did  not  hold 
the  marriage  bond  in  great  sacredness,  and 
as  Caroline  had  numerous  admirers,  she 
flitted  away  from  John  apparently  without 
a  pang.  The  old  woman,  looking  at  first 
more  like  her  husband's  mother  than  his 
wife,  slipped  into  her  rightful  place,  and 
John  seemed  no  less  contented  with  her 
than  he  had  been  with  her  youthful  suc 
cessor.  His  face  was  as  impassive  as  ever, 
his  manner  as  perfect,  his  service  as  com 
plete.  The  incident  gave  me  the  germ  of 


246  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

the  first  short  story  I  wrote,  a  sketch  to 
which  allusion  has  been  made  already,  as  it 
gave  me  my  start  in  authorship. 

Although  no  shadow  of  the  future  had  yet 
been  thrown  across  our  path,  there  was  ap 
proaching  for  our  home,  in  the  progress  of 
the  marching  days,  a  change  that  was  un 
foreseen  and  undreaded.  We  decided  in  1870 
that  we  would  return  to  the  North.  The 
happy  years  of  my  married  life  reached 
their  conclusion  in  1871.  From  that  time 
life  took  on  a  more  sombre  and  a  wholly 
different  aspect. 


From  a  Photograph  taken  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  1868. 


XIX 

NEW  ADJUSTMENTS 

WHILE  a  resident  of  Norfolk  I  had 
been  an  occasional  contributor  to 
the  Christian  Intelligencer  and  the 
Sunday-school  Times.  Once  in  a  while  I 
had  sent  a  bit  of  verse  or  a  prose  sketch  to 
the  Independent,  and  at  intervals  my  name 
had  appeared  in  the  columns  of  Hearth  and 
Home.  With  the  editors  of  these  publica 
tions  I  had  enjoyed  a  desultory  but  agreea 
ble  correspondence.  After  my  return  to 
Brooklyn  I  resolved  to  put  aside  the  feeling 
of  diffidence  and  reserve  that  made  me  re 
luctant  to  intrude  on  an  editor  in  his  private 
office.  The  guarded  precincts  of  an  edito 
rial  den  were  to  my  thought  much  like  the 
palace  chambers  of  a  reigning  sovereign. 

Taking  my  courage  in  both  hands  I  one 
day  ventured  to  call  upon  Mr.  Oliver  John 
son,  the  managing  editor  of  the  Independent. 
I  found  him  an  elderly  gentleman  with  courtly 
old-school  manners.  He  greeted  me  with  a 
suavity  and  gracious  kindness  that  made  me 

247 


248  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

forget  that  I  was  not  in  a  drawing-room. 
His  fine  old  face  and  shock  of  snowy  hair 
bespoke  him  in  the  later  sixties.  His  eyes 
under  shaggy  brows  were  keen  and  full  of 
fire.  A  few  moments  passed  in  the  amenities 
of  making  acquaintance,  when  Mr.  Johnson 
turned  to  me  and  abruptly  asked,  "  How  old 
are  you  ?  "  He  smiled  as  I  frankly  replied, 
and  said  with  a  half  sigh,  "  You  have  a 
sunny  path  before  you.  You  are  young."  I 
hoped  the  words  might  prove  prophetic,  al 
though  I  did  not  care  whether  the  path  were 
to  be  sunny  or  clouded.  I  had  tasted  the 
sweets  of  encouragement,  if  not  of  success, 
and  I  desired,  if  I  could,  to  tread  the  path 
over  which  others  had  forged  and  to  which 
editors  had  the  open  sesame.  Mr.  Johnson 
gave  me  what  I  lacked,  confidence  in  myself, 
and  although  I  did  not  become  then  or 
afterwards  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  In 
dependent,  I  valued  his  cheery  Godspeed. 

My  next  incursion  of  the  kind  was 
prompted  by  an  impulse  that  in  turn  was  due 
to  an  incident  in  the  morning  newspaper. 
Something  that  I  read  at  the  breakfast  table 
gave  me  the  motive  for  a  poem  and  as  pen 
and  paper  were  near  my  hand  I  wrote  a  half- 
dozen  stanzas  then  and  there.  On  reading 


NEW  ADJUSTMENTS  249 

them  over  it  became  evident  that  as  they 
were  seasonable  their  appearance  in  print 
must  be  arranged  for  immediately,  or  else 
they  might  lie  in  my  portfolio  until  they 
would  lose  their  significance.  Should  I  trust 
them  to  the  post-office,  or  instead  take  them 
personally  as  an  offering  to  Hearth  and 
Home  f  I  knew  by  intuition  the  niche  into 
which  my  poem  would  fit.  This,  let  me  say 
in  passing,  is  an  extremely  helpful  gift  if  one 
is  anticipating  consecration  to  literary  pursuit. 
The  ability  to  decide  beforehand  the  channel 
on  which  one's  little  ships  are  to  be  launched 
is  an  asset  worth  possessing,  and  it  is  not  by 
any  means  bestowed  upon  every  youthful  ad 
venturer. 

Armed  with  my  lyric  I  crossed  the  river 
and  walked  up  Fulton  Street  to  Broadway. 
The  editorial  rooms  of  Hearth  and  Home 
were  situated  near  the  top  of  a  six  story 
building  not  far  from  the  City  Hall  Park. 
I  walked  to  and  fro  in  front  of  that  building 
uncertain  whether  to  enter  or  after  all  post 
my  verses  in  the  box  at  the  corner,  and  my 
irresolution  lasted  almost  a  half  hour.  Fi 
nally,  my  instinctive  dislike  to  be  beaten  in 
an  enterprise  triumphed  over  my  correspond 
ing  dislike  to  present  my  poetry  for  sale,  and 


250  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

I  stepped  into  the  building  and  began  my  up 
ward  climb.  Little  did  I  dream  that  the 
time  was  approaching  when  I  should  mount 
those  stairs  several  days  a  week  to  an  office 
of  my  own. 

Edward  Eggleston  had  lately  resigned  the 
editorial  charge  of  Hearth  and  Home.  Un 
der  his  care  it  had  developed  into  a  house 
hold  magazine  of  the  highest  type,  a  prede 
cessor  in  some  of  its  best  features  of  the 
magazines  for  women  and  the  household  that 
are  conspicuously  successful  at  present.  Dr. 
Eggleston  had  become  the  pastor  of  an  in 
fluential  church  and  was  besides  devoting  a 
great  deal  of  time  to  literature.  His  "  Hoo- 
sier  Schoolmaster  "  had  achieved  popularity, 
describing  as  it  did  with  fidelity  and  fresh 
ness  the  rural  life  of  Indiana  and  the  experi 
ences  of  a  Methodist  circuit  rider.  He  fol 
lowed  it  by  several  novels  of  Western  life  and 
by  interesting  studies  in  Colonial  history. 

At  the  time  of  my  visit  his  younger 
brother,  Mr.  George  Gary  Eggleston,  had  suc 
ceeded  him  in  the  editor's  chair.  I  remem 
ber,  as  though  my  call  had  been  made  this 
week,  the  tall,  dark-eyed  and  cordial  man  on 
the  sunny  side  of  thirty  who  rose  to  receive 
me.  Mr.  Eggleston  had  been  a  Confederate 


NEW  ADJUSTMENTS  251 

soldier  and  he  was  every  inch  the  chivalrous 
Virginian.  My  talk  with  him  grew  friendly 
on  the  instant.  He  not  only  read  my  poem 
without  delay,  but  delighted  me  unspeakably 
by  sending  it  at  once  to  the  printer  with  an 
order  that  it  should  appear  in  the  issue  then 
going  to  press.  Before  I  took  leave  I  had 
promised  to  write  a  series  of  articles  for 
Hearth  and  Home,  had  ascertained  that  Mr. 
Eggleston  lived  in  Brooklyn  as  I  did,  and 
that  he  had  a  wife  and  child.  I  learned,  too, 
that  the  Egglestons  had  not  long  been  domi 
ciled  in  what  was  then  denominated  the  City 
of  Churches,  and  that  Mrs.  Eggleston  would 
be  pleased  to  receive  a  call  from  one  who 
knew  the  city  better  than  herself.  A  few 
days  later  I  called  on  the  little  lady  and  very 
naturally  we  soon  drifted  into  friendship. 

These  incidents  took  place  some  months 
before  I  considered  the  possibility  of  regard 
ing  literature  as  a  vocation.  A  year  had 
passed  when  one  evening  Mr.  Eggleston 
called  upon  me  at  my  home.  He  opened 
the  conversation  by  the  startling  request 
that  I  would  accept  a  position  about  to  be 
come  vacant  on  the  staff  of  his  weekly 
magazine.  "  Hearth  and  Home,"  he  re 
marked,  "  is  to  sustain  a  serious  loss  in  the 


252  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

near  future.  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes  Dodge  is 
leaving  it  to  become  the  editor  of  a  new 
magazine  for  children,  and  the  publishers 
have  authorized  me  to  offer  to  you  the  posi 
tion  from  which  she  withdraws."  He 
went  on  further  to  say  that  the  decision  had 
been  reached  after  conference  on  the  part  of 
all  concerned,  and  that  as  editor-in-chief  he 
particularly  hoped  that  I  would  not  decline 
the  opening. 

I  listened  to  Mr.  Eggleston's  proposition 
in  a  maze  of  bewilderment.  The  offer  was 
flattering  and  the  invitation  alluring.  The 
salary  attached  to  the  post  was  liberal. 
Still  I  hesitated.  "  I  know  nothing,"  I  said, 
"  of  the  inner  side  of  journalism.  I  think  I 
can  write  for  children,  but  of  the  making  up 
of  forms  and  of  editorial  work  I  am  as 
ignorant  as  any  child.  I  have  never  been 
obliged  to  step  outside  my  home  in  a  re 
sponsible  capacity,  and  I  am  by  no  means 
sure  that  I  have  the  critical  faculty.  I  am 
afraid  that  I  should  make  mistakes  and  dis 
appoint  every  one.  I  should  necessarily 
seem  inadequate  to  occupy  a  place  that  has 
been  brilliantly  filled  by  so  gifted  a  woman 
as  Mrs.  Dodge."  Thus  I  represented  my 
disqualifications. 


NEW  ADJUSTMENTS  253 

Each  of  my  objections  was  in  turn  over 
ruled  by  my  friend  who  persistently  and 
perseveringly  expressed  his  wish  that  at 
least  I  should  give  the  opportunity  a  trial. 
Before  the  evening  was  over  I  consented  to 
do  this,  and  a  fortnight  afterwards  I  was  in 
stalled  at  my  desk  in  a  back  room  on  the 
fourth  floor  of  the  building  tenanted  by  the 
Orange  Judd  Company.  We  had  no  eleva 
tor.  I  went  to  the  office  four  days  a  week 
and  learned  to  mount  with  confidence  the 
stairs  I  had  timidly  ascended  a  year 
earlier. 

To  this  period  belong  some  of  my  pleasant 
reminiscences,  although  they  are  not  of  a 
kind  to  be  set  down  in  print.  I  found  it, 
for  example,  very  gratifying  to  have  the 
sense  of  power  that  accompanies  responsi 
bility  when  one  is  engaged  in  catering  to 
the  reading  public.  To  act  as  hostess  in  my 
cozy  little  den  was  as  delightful  as  to  exer 
cise  kindred  functions  in  the  home  drawing- 
room.  There  were  regular  contributors  who 
came  often,  there  were  men  and  women  who 
dropped  in  to  make  suggestions  and  advance 
ideas  or  theories,  there  were  artists  appear 
ing  with  sketches  and  from  day  to  day  there 
was  the  interest  of  something  perpetually 


254  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

new.  The  editor  who  falls  into  a  rut  and  is 
the  slave  of  routine  must  inevitably  spread 
a  flavourless  table  for  his  readers.  The 
constant  demand  is  twofold.  First  for 
novelty,  bringing  in  the  element  of  sur 
prise  and  variety,  and  second,  for  the 
homely  and  familiar,  for  that  which  has  its 
parallel  in  the  life  and  experience  of  those 
who  partake  of  the  feast.  The  metaphor  is 
not  strained  that  brings  into  comparison  a 
weekly  or  monthly  periodical  intended  for 
the  family,  and  the  board  at  which  the 
family  sit  to  partake  of  nourishing  food. 

Mr.  Eggleston  was  a  good  comrade  and  an 
admirable  chief.  He  knew  what  he  wanted 
and  he  knew  as  well  what  his  subscribers 
were  seeking.  For  a  while  Mr.  E.  S.  Nadal 
was  in  the  position  of  assistant  editor,  writ 
ing  paragraphs,  reading  and  criticising  man 
uscripts  and  performing  the  almost  innumer 
able  small  duties  that  happen  along  in  a 
journalistic  day.  Some  months  after  my 
connection  with  Hearth  and  Home  had  been 
fairly  established,  Mr.  Nadal  retired  from 
the  magazine  and  accepted  a  position  else 
where.  I,  having  by  this  time  grown  fear 
less  enough  to  attempt  anything  that  was 
offered,  slipped  into  his  vacant  place  and 


NEW  ADJUSTMENTS  255 

carried  on  its  obligations  with  those  of  the 
Children's  Page.  To  my  original  four  days 
a  week  I  added  two  more  and  found  each 
hour  overflowing  with  things  to  be  done. 
For  the  time  I  had  become  a  woman  of  busi 
ness  with  business  cares  and  anxieties. 

During  this  period  I  might  easily,  had  I 
chosen,  have  exchanged  journalism  for  an 
other  not  less  important  and  quite  as  exact 
ing  profession.  Three  times  in  as  many 
years  I  was  invited  to  become  the  Dean  of 
an  institution  for  women,  once  in  Illinois, 
once  in  Pennsylvania  and  once  in  New 
York.  Each  of  the  institutions  that  so  hon 
oured  me  was  in  the  front  rank  among  schools 
of  learning  for  the  daughters  of  the  land.  I 
had  put  my  hand  to  the  plough  in  another 
direction  and  thought  it  wise  to  make  no 
radical  change.  I  had  not  yet  made  a  be 
ginning  in  what  has  been  the  most  congenial 
work  of  many  years,  namely,  writing  es 
pecially  for  and  directly  to  young  women, 
but  these  suggestions  floating  in  from  differ 
ent  quarters  without  solicitation  and  with 
out  personal  influence  led  me  to  think  that 
I  might  have  a  mission  to  girlhood.  If  for 
the  years  of  one  generation  I  have  been  able 
to  write  for  girls  in  a  friendly,  sympathetic 


256  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

fashion,  and  if  it  is  my  proudest  distinction 
that  they  call  me  their  friend,  telling  me 
their  secrets  and  consulting  me  about  their 
plans,  the  work  I  arn  doing  for  them  dates 
to  the  hour  when  I  regretfully  declined  to 
become  a  preceptress. 

Mrs.  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  whose  best  me 
morial  is  St.  Nicholas,  and  who  is  enshrined 
in  the  hearts  of  children  from  Maine  to 
California,  is  no  longer  with  us.  When  I 
met  her  for  the  first  time  she  was  in  the 
glow  of  youthful  womanhood.  Charming, 
magnetic,  sympathetic  and  wholesome,  she 
impressed  her  gracious  personality  on  her 
ideal  magazine  for  the  girls  and  boys  of 
America.  When  I  last  conversed  with  her 
in  her  summer  home  at  Onteora  in  the  Cats- 
kills,  she  was  still  beautiful  and  gracious 
though  her  hair  was  gray  and  her  grandchil 
dren  were  about  her.  She  had  parted  with 
none  of  her  enthusiasm,  her  wit  was  as  ready 
and  her  fun  as  spontaneous  as  in  the  past, 
and  the  Indian  summer  of  life  shed  around 
her  an  exquisite  serenity.  She  is  one  of  the 
dear  women  whose  friendship  suffused  an  at 
mosphere  of  gladness  around  those  whose 
privilege  it  was  to  know  her  well.  She 
never  grew  old.  To  the  day  when  she  fell 


NEW  ADJUSTMENTS  257 

asleep  she  had  a  heart  responsive  to  the 
needs  of  the  children,  the  sweet  and  trustful 
heart  of  the  child  being  hers  in  every  vicis 
situde. 


XX 

THE   DAY'S  WORK 

REMAINING  with  Hearth  and  Home 
until  it  ceased  to  be  published  I 
gained  a  great  deal  of  valuable  ex 
perience  and  made  some  lasting  friend 
ships.  The  question  is  often  asked  whether 
it  is  practicable  for  a  woman  to  unite  pro 
fessional  activity  outside  its  doors  with  the 
care  and  management  of  a  household  and 
the  guardianship  of  children.  I  would  not 
assert  that  the  combination  is  ideal,  but  with 
me  it  proved  successful  and  the  home  rou 
tine  was  tranquilly  ordered  and  carried  on 
without  friction,  although  for  several  years  I 
spent  many  daylight  hours  in  an  office. 

Here  let  me  put  on  record  the  obligation 
I  owe  to  a  series  of  worthy  and  efficient 
maids  who  proved  to  be  helpers  in  the 
largest  meaning  of  the  term,  from  the  mo 
ment  they  stepped  into  my  kitchen  until 
each  in  turn  left  it  for  a  home  of  her  own. 
One  fair-haired  girl  came  from  Nova  Scotia 
and  might  have  been  the  heroine  of  a  roman 
tic  novel.  She  was  of  good  birth  and  had 

268 


From  a  Photograph  taken  in  1880. 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  259 

relatives  who  were  commissioned  officers  in 
the  British  army.  Her  father  was  appar 
ently  the  black  sheep  of  his  family,  and  she 
was  the  eldest  of  numerous  children.  She 
devoted  her  leisure  to  writing  letters  of  ex 
traordinary  length  and  her  wages  were  regu 
larly  sent  home  to  aid  in  the  education 
of  her  younger  brothers.  This  blue-eyed 
maiden  had  a  habit  of  reading  aloud  in  the 
evening,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  in  a 
pleasant  monotone  with  a  rising  inflection 
at  the  end  of  a  sentence  would  reach  us 
above  stairs  like  a  lulling  melody.  She  was 
married  from  my  home  and  has  had  a  life 
of  usefulness  and  prosperity. 

Others  of  whom  I  think  with  affectionate 
gratitude  were  warm-hearted,  quick-tem 
pered  and  capable  daughters  of  the  Emerald 
Isle.  They  were  usually  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith,  though  occasionally  one  was 
a  Presbyterian  or  a  Methodist.  Whatever 
their  creed  they  belonged  to  the  sisterhood 
who  love  and  serve  the  world's  Redeemer. 
Lacking  their  aid  I  could  not  have  given  to 
my  work  the  attention  and  absorption  that 
it  demanded. 

In  1880  it  had  grown  to  be  the  definite  oc 
cupation  of  my  time,  exacting  a  large  meas- 


260  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

ure  of  thought  and  claiming  constant  atten 
tion.  Although  every  hour  was  full,  I  was 
fortunate  in  being  able  to  do  the  day's  work 
in  my  sunny  study  at  home.  The  Family 
Page  in  the  Christian  Intelligencer,  which  I 
still  edit,  came  into  my  hands  about  this 
time,  and  while  engaged  in  other  work  for 
various  periodicals  I  now  took  upon  myself 
the  responsibility  of  reading  manuscript  as 
literary  adviser  in  the  book  publishing  de 
partment  of  Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers. 
When  Harper's  Young  People  was  estab 
lished-  it  was  natural  for  me  to  become  one 
of  its  frequent  contributors,  and  after  a 
while  there  floated  into  my  hands  a  charm 
ing  and  interesting  employment  which 
brought  me  into  direct  contact  with  thou 
sands  of  children.  Certain  pages  in  the 
little  magazine  were  set  aside  for  the  post 
mistress,  and  into  her  post-office  box  came 
day  by  day  letters  from  the  boys  and  girls 
who  corresponded  with  her  as  confidentially 
as  older  people  have  corresponded  since. 
I  could  not  step  into  a  ferry-boat  or  a 
train  without  meeting  children  who  ap 
proached  me  with  smiling  faces  and  little 
hands  outstretched,  saying  that  they  had 
seen  my  picture  in  Harper's  Young  People 


THE   CHILDREN'S   FRIEND 
Harper's  \oung  People,  1887 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  261 

and  knew  me  as  their  friend.  We  organized 
the  children  into  a  league  of  Little  Knights 
and  Ladies,  who  really  did  an  immense 
amount  of  practical  good  by  their  self-denial 
and  sweet  charities.  They  endowed  a  bed  in 
a  hospital  for  children  in  New  York  and 
built  in  North  Carolina  a  little  church  for 
the  children  of  the  mountains. 

In  those  days  I  did  all  my  writing  with 
my  own  hand  and  I  marvel  at  the  number 
of  letters  I  was  able  to  send  from  my  desk 
in  a  day.  To  write  verses  for  the  children 
was  a  great  pleasure,  and  nothing  that  I 
have  ever  done  has  seemed  to  me  more  en 
tirely  worth  while.  Attending  Thanksgiv 
ing  exercises  of  a  school  in  my  neighbourhood 
a  year  ago,  what  was  my  surprise  to  hear 
one  young  voice  after  another  recite  from 
the  platform  poems  of  mine  written  years 
ago  for  Harper's  Young  People.  At  first  I 
did  not  realize  whence  the  familiar  stanzas 
had  been  taken,  but  one  does  not  readily  for 
get  the  children  of  one's  brain.  I  was  the 
happier  that  this  programme  had  not  been  ar 
ranged  for  me,  but  was  simply  the  choice  of 
the  teachers  and  pupils  who  had  found  bits 
that  suited  the  occasion  in  books  that  bore 
my  name.  As  typical  of  the  verses  written 


262  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

for  children  two  little  poems  are  here  in 
serted.  The  motive  of  the  first  is  evident  in 
the  opening  stanza. 

A  merry  tramp  of  little  feet, 

Just  hear  the  sweet  vibration ; 
The  children  over  all  the  land 

Have  had  a  long  vacation, 
And  back  again  they  haste  to  take 

In  school  the  dear  old  places, 
To  measure  out  the  days  by  rule, 

With  fair,  unshadowed  faces. 

They  troop  along  the  city  streets, 

Grave  eyes  grow  young  that  see  them, 
And  wistful  hearts  from  every  blight 

Of  sin  and  pain  would  free  them. 
Athwart  the  dusty  ways  of  'change, 

With  wafts  of  flowers  and  grasses, 
As  if  to  music  sweet  and  strange, 

The  brilliant  army  passes. 

Along  the  quiet  country  roads, 

By  purple  asters  bordered, 
At  nine  o'clock  and  half-past  three, 

The  gay  reviews  are  ordered  ; 
And  childish  voices,  clear  and  shrill, 

Amaze  the  peeping  thrushes, 
And  other  little  feathered  folk, 

Housekeeping  in  the  bushes. 

We  older  people  like  to  watch 

Our  little  lads  and  lasses, 
As  sturdily  they  set  to  work 

In  sober  ranks  and  classes  ; 
Such  happy  brows  are  overbent 

To  con  the  pictured  pages, 
Such  earnest  wills  are  wrestling  with 

The  story  of  the  ages. 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  263 

And  sometimes  sighing  as  we  gaze  — 

So  fast  the  bairns  are  growing  — 
We  think  of  darker  skies  to  come 

For  these,  so  glad  and  glowing. 
Fain  would  we  keep  the  children  still 

Brown -cheeked  and  blithe  and  ruddy, 
With  nothing  harder  in  their  lives 

Than  days  of  task  and  study. 

But  God,  our  Father's  wiser  love, 

Prepares  them  for  the  evil  ; 
This  army  yet  shall  wage  the  war 

With  world  and  flesh  and  devil. 
God  bless  them  in  the  coming  years, 

And  guard  the  waiting  places 
Which,  by  and  by,  He'll  bid  them  fill  — 

His  smile  upon  their  faces. 

The  incident  that  gave  me  the  next  poem 
is  a  picture  in  memory  still.  I  was  strolling 
along  a  street  in  St.  Augustine  idly  noting 
the  passers-by  when  a  boy  of  ten  attracted 
my  notice.  He  was  lame  and  his  face  indi 
cated  suffering.  As  I  glanced  at  him  in 
sympathy  he  smiled  bravely  and  spoke  ab 
ruptly  as  if  to  prevent  me  from  offering  him 
pity. 

Tap,  tap,  along  the  pavement,  tap, 

It  came,  a  little  crutch. 
A  pale-faced  lad  looked  up  at  me ; 

"I  do  not  mind  it  much," 
He  answered  to  my  pitying  look. 

"  It  might  be  worse,  you  know  j 
Some  fellows  have  to  stay  in  bed, 

When  I  quite  fast  can  go. 


264  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  used  to  run  about — 

Perhaps  I  may  again  ; 
The  doctor  says  'tis  wonderful 

I  have  so  little  pain. 
It  hurts  me  now  and  then,  of  course— 

Well,  ever  since  the  fall ; 
But  I'm  so  very  glad,  you  see, 

That  I  can  walk  at  all." 

Tap,  tap,  the  little  crutch  went  on  ; 

I  saw  the  golden  hair, 
The  brown  eyes  wide  and  all  aglow, 

The  noble,  manly  air  ; 
And  somehow  tears  a  moment  came, 

And  made  my  vision  dim, 
While  still  the  laddie's  cheerful  words 

Were  sweet  as  sweetest  hymn. 

"  I  am  so  very  glad,  you  see, 

That  I  can  walk  at  all." 
Why,  that's  the  way  for  us  to  feel 

Whatever  griefs  befall. 
I  learned  a  lesson  from  the  boy, 

Who  bore  with  knightly  grace, 
The  pain  that  could  not  drive  the  smiles 

From  his  heroic  face. 

The  delight  of  working  for  children  ex 
ceeds  the  fatigue  that  must  accompany  any 
task  carried  forward  day  in  and  day  out. 
Children  are  responsive  and  appreciative, 
and  there  is  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge 
that  the  impressions  made  upon  them  in 
their  formative  years  are  shaping  character 
and  influencing  destiny.  The  teacher  in  the 
kindergarten  has  a  post  as  responsible  and 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  265 

as  honourable  as  that  of  the  professor  before 
whom  assemble  undergraduates  in  college. 
What  one  does  for  older  people  may  or  may 
not  fulfill  its  mission.  The  earnest  worker 
for  children  never  incurs  failure. 

Friends  have  inquired  whether  it  has  been 
my  custom  to  wait  upon  moods  and  trust  to 
inspiration.  On  the  contrary,  mine  has  been 
the  task  of  the  day-labourer,  and  I  have 
welcomed  drudgery.  Granting  that  the  writ 
ing  talent  is  a  native  endowment,  there  must 
yet  be  industry  and  perseverance  if  it  is  to 
accrue  to  the  profit  of  its  possessor.  Person 
ally  I  am  persuaded  that  an  ordinary  day 
spent  at  an  author's  desk  may  prove  as 
fatiguing  to  soul  and  body  as  a  day  spent  in 
the  laundry  over  the  tubs.  Work  is  work 
let  it  be  of  the  brain  or  of  the  hand,  and  if 
it  be  done  faithfully  the  wage  is  of  secondary 
importance. 

Rudyard  Kipling  with  the  unerring  touch 
of  genius  sets  the  situation  before  us  in 
"  L'Envoi,"  for  which  of  us  does  not  look 
forward  to  an  hour 

When  only  the  Master  shall  praise  us,  and  only  the 

Master  shall  blame, 
And  no  one  shall  work  for  money,  and  no  one  shall 

work  for  fame, 
But  each  for  the  joy  of  the  working. 


266  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Women  at  home  desiring  to  earn  money 
that  they  may  not  be  reduced  to  begging  it 
from  reluctant  husbands,  women  aware  of  a 
wish  to  express  sentiments  and  opinions  in 
print,  and  women  in  urgent  need  of  daily 
bread  are  turning  their  eyes  towards  pub 
lishing  houses.  They  are  deeply  disap 
pointed  when  their  offerings  are  declined 
with  thanks.  The  majority  of  amateur  con 
tributors  have  no  real  equipment.  They 
bring  to  the  work  they  seek  no  adequate 
preparation.  They  would  not  risk  a  new 
gown  in  the  hands  of  a  third-rate  dress 
maker,  nor  expect  an  ignorant  peasant  to 
cook  and  serve  a  dainty  meal.  Their  mis 
take  lies  in  imagining  that  neither  skill  nor 
training  is  essential  to  success  in  writing 
for  the  press.  They  likewise  leave  wholly 
out  of  the  question  the  fitness  that  inheres 
in  temperament  and  inborn  talent.  Thus 
attempting  an  entrance  on  a  profession 
where  the  competition  is  tremendous,  they 
are  doomed  to  failure.  One  such  applicant 
observed  to  me  with  ingenuous  frankness,  "  I 
presume  you  reel  off  what  you  write  just  as 
you  would  unwind  a  spool  of  silk." 

Another  who  called  on  me  one  summer 
morning  told  me  that  she  had  left  her  home 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  267 

in  the  West  to  support  herself  by  newspaper 
work  in  New  York.  She  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  journalism,  and  came  to  me 
that  I  might  explain  its  principles  and  give 
her  an  idea  of  what  she  ought  to  say  when 
applying  for  a  position.  She  stated  the  situ 
ation  as  it  appeared  inviting  to  her,  in  a 
single  sentence, — "  I  want  to  find  the  least 
work  and  the  largest  pay."  In  this  spirit 
she  had  travelled  over  many  states  to  meet 
predestined  defeat. 

Creative  genius  is  a  divinely  bestowed  gift 
which  is  the  coronation  of  the  few.  I  do 
not  agree  with  the  dictum  that  genius  is 
only  a  capacity  for  taking  pains.  Here  and 
there  along  the  ages  a  magnificent  genius 
rises  like  a  mountain  peak.  It  may  well  be 
that  the  law  of  incessant  application  and 
unstinted  endeavour,  imperative  in  its  en 
forcements  upon  the  multitude,  has  excep 
tions  for  these  fortunate  ones.  The  truth  is 
that  genius  itself  attains  to  higher  eminence 
when  allied  to  robust  and  sturdy  effort  than 
when  it  follows  impulse  and  works  heed 
lessly  and  at  haphazard. 


XXI 

THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR 

MARY  LOUISE  BOOTH,  for  twenty- 
two  years  the  editor  of  Harper's 
Bazar,  was  a  woman  of  strong 
character  and  interesting  personality.  My 
first  meeting  with  her  took  place  when  I 
was  fifteen.  She  appeared  one  morning,  a 
young  woman  nearly  ten  years  our  senior, 
in  a  class  taught  by  our  French  professor. 
Presented  as  an  outside  student  who  desired 
an  opportunity  for  French  conversation,  we 
found  her  a  stimulating  addition  to  our 
number.  Miss  Booth  was  then  diffident  and 
retiring,  although  thoroughly  self-possessed 
and  able  to  hold  her  own  in  a  discussion, 
however  obstinate  the  opposite  side  might 
be.  Her  accent  was  good,  and  she  was 
already  familiar  with  the  best  in  French 
literature. 

Years  passed  on  swiftly  and  I  had  forgot 
ten  my  former  occasional  classmate,  when  I 
discovered  her  again  in  the  writer  of  letters 
from  the  editorial  rooms  of  Messrs.  Harper 

268 


From  a  Photograph  taken  in  1SUO. 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR  269 

and  Brothers.  Our  acquaintance  for  a  long 
time  was  slight,  but  it  finally  matured  into 
friendship.  Miss  Booth  combined  gracious- 
ness  and  dignity  in  a  singular  degree,  and 
behind  her  feminine  reserve  she  hid  a  mas 
culine  grasp  of  business  and  the  quick 
decisiveness  of  a  man  of  affairs.  Never  in 
the  least  mannish,  and  womanly  to  the 
core,  she  excelled  most  of  her  sex  in  quali 
ties  more  often  appertaining  to  man  than  to 
woman. 

During  her  protracted  connection  with 
the  Bazar  she  took  few  vacations  of  any 
length.  Once  she  went  to  Europe  for  six 
months,  but  ordinarily  four  weeks  in  sum 
mer  covered  her  annual  holiday.  She  once 
amused  me  by  saying  that  she  had  gone 
twelve  summers  in  succession  to  a  place  for 
which  she  did  not  especially  care  because  at 
the  inn  there  was  a  veranda  to  which  she 
could  easily  step  from  a  carriage.  The  slim 
girl  who  came  to  the  classes  of  our  French 
professor  had  vanished,  and  in  later  years 
there  was  little  trace  of  her  in  the  woman 
whose  avoirdupois  was  somewhat  impress 
ive. 

Miss  Booth  edited  Harper's  Bazar  so  suc 
cessfully  that  it  was  a  welcome  visitor  in 


270  FROM  MY  YOUTH 

homes  of  refinement  from  coast  to  coast. 
While  preeminently  a  journal  of  fashion  it 
had  a  pervasive  literary  flavour  from  the 
first  to  the  last  page.  She  was  ably  sup 
ported  in  the  fashion  columns  of  the  Bazar 
by  a  tactful  and  efficient  assistant,  Miss  S. 
G.  Shanks.  Of  her  I  shall  speak  a  little 
farther  on. 

Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,  two  gifted  sisters 
from  Ohio,  both  of  whom  were  poets  of  no 
mean  degree,  had  drawn  around  them  in 
their  home  a  brilliant  coterie  of  friends, 
some  of  them  literary,  others  artistic,  all 
companionable  and  socially  delightful. 
When  death  had  taken  these  beloved 
women  away  there  seemed  left  no  rallying 
centre  to  which  the  scattered  groups  might 
come. 

Miss  Booth,  who  had  united  with  a  con 
genial  friend,  almost  dearer  than  a  sister,  in 
establishing  a  home  which  lacked  no  ele 
ment  of  beauty,  resolved  to  entertain  the  peo 
ple  she  liked,  informally  and  cordially,  every 
Saturday  evening.  The  house  in  which  Miss 
Booth  and  her  friend,  Mrs.  Wright,  resided, 
and  which  is  gratefully  remembered  by  those 
who  were  wont  to  assemble  there,  is  not  now 
in  existence.  New  York  is  a  city  of  rapid 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR  271 

growth  and  swift  transitions,  and  it  is  by  no 
means  a  strange  thing  that  as  commerce  de 
mands,  the  faces  of  streets  and  avenues  are 
altered  beyond  recognition.  Neither  Miss 
Booth  nor  Mrs.  Wright  dreamed  that  only  a 
little  while  after  they  had  gone  not  one  stone 
should  be  left  upon  another  to  show  where 
their  home  had  been.  They  were  inseparable 
in  life,  these  two  women  whose  friendship 
was  perfect,  and  in  death  they  were  not  long 
divided,  Mrs.  Wright  surviving  Miss  Booth 
little  more  than  a  year. 

Miss  Booth's  Saturday  evenings  were 
unique.  Of  material  refreshment  there  was 
seldom  anything  except  tea  and  wafers,  and 
this  was  itself  an  innovation  in  days  when 
custom  exacted  a  spread  of  some  elaboration 
to  express  hospitality.  Miss  Booth  had  the 
honour  of  acting  as  a  pioneer  in  a  direction 
for  the  better.  Clever  men  and  attractive 
women  met  beneath  her  roof,  the  talk  was 
witty,  discursive  and  keen,  and  her  draw 
ing-room  compared  favourably  with  a  salon  in 
Paris  under  the  old  regime.  Miss  Booth's 
illness  and  death  brought  sadness  to  a  large 
circle,  and  to  those  who  had  loved  her  the 
loss  seemed  irreparable.  A  few  days  after 
her  death,  at  the  instance  of  the  old  house  of 


272  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Messrs.  Harper  and  Brothers,  I  was  installed 
as  her  successor. 

The  Harper  building  in  Franklin  Square 
was  much  like  a  beehive  in  its  orderly  in 
dustry.  The  offices  of  the  Bazar,  Weekly  and 
Magazine,  were  reached  by  an  ascent  of  steps 
that  wound  through  the  centre  of  the  edifice. 
Every  one  who  chose  to  call  had  free  access 
to  the  editors.  No  particular  care  was  taken 
to  guard  any  one  from  intrusion  and,  to  say 
the  truth,  the  general  editorial  force  took  no 
pains  for  its  own  protection. 

Mr.  Henry  M.  Alden,  the  benignant  editor 
of  the  magazine,  was  accessible  at  any  hour 
of  any  day  to  whomsoever  it  might  occur  to 
call  on  him  with  a  suggestion,  a  story  or  a 
sketch.  In  his  rare  combination  of  the  mys 
tic  and  the  practical  man,  a  combination  that 
has  made  Mr.  Alden  the  dean  of  American 
editors,  he  was  never  annoyed  by  a  visitor, 
and  never  permitted  a  caller  to  fancy  an  ar 
rival  inopportune.  The  same  thing  could  be 
said  of  the  late  Mr.  S.  S.  Conant,  at  that  time 
the  editor  of  Harper's  Weekly,  and  of  Mr.  R. 
R.  Sinclair,  who  was  Mr.  Conant's  chief  of 
staff.  George  William  Curtis  appeared  on 
certain  days  and  brought  with  him  in  person 
the  atmosphere  that  for  many  years  made 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR  273 

the  Easy  Chair  the  most  magnetic  corner  of 
Harper's  Magazine.  How  well  I  remember 
the  homeliness,  friendliness  and  old-fashioned 
sweetness  of  that  publishing  house  a  genera 
tion  ago. 

The  members  of  the  firm  as  it  then  existed 
have  been  compared  to  the  Cheeryble  broth- 
era  in  "  Nicholas  Nickleby."  No  guard  on 
picket  duty  fenced  these  gentlemen  from  in 
trusion.  As  the  visitor  climbed  the  wide 
flight  of  steps  from  the  sidewalk  to  the  count 
ing-room,  he  turned  to  the  right  at  the  top, 
took  a  step  or  two  and  there  behind  a  railing 
in  full  view,  each  occupied  at  his  own  desk, 
sat  the  several  men  who  bore  the  name  of 
Harper.  Four  brothers  had  founded  the 
house,  and  their  pictures  framed  together 
adorned  the  wall  of  the  Bazar  office.  Their 
sons  and  grandsons  bore  a  strong  resemblance 
to  this  honoured  quartette,  and  the  resem 
blance  was  not  in  externals  only.  The  look 
of  honesty  and  sincerity,  of  kindness  and 
goodness  that  characterized  the  countenances 
of  the  original  four,  distinguished  the  faces 
and  the  bearing  of  their  descendants.  Each 
had  his  own  department,  and  the  stranger 
from  South  Australia  or  Nebraska,  the  ex 
plorer  from  Africa  or  the  young  author  from 


274  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Massachusetts  might  walk  in,  introduce  him 
self  and  be  pleasantly  greeted  by  the. man  with 
whom  he  desired  to  have  conference. 

In  the  summer  the  entire  house,  from  the 
heads  of  the  firm  to  the  errand  boy,  took  off 
its  coat  in  those  days.  No  apology  was  made 
for  shirt  sleeves.  Also,  in  summer,  one  of 
the  firm,  who,  living  out  of  town,  possessed 
a  magnificent  rose  garden,  would  encumber 
himself  with  a  burden  of  fragrant  flowers,  and 
send  them  here  and  there  about  the  building 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  workers  with  homes  in 
the  city  and  gardens  in  back  yards.  In  win 
ter  many  an  act  of  unobtrusive  kindness 
brightened  the  lives  of  those  who  might  have 
been  supposed  beneath  the  notice  of  the  au 
gust  heads  of  a  great  publishing  house. 

The  little  incident  that  I  now  relate  was 
told  me  by  a  man  who  worked  at  a  printer's 
case  and  happened  to  know  the  circumstance. 

On  a  day  when  the  temperature  was  below 
zero  a  messenger  boy  sent  on  an  errand  had 
no  overcoat.  The  lack  was  observed  by  one 
of  the  firm  who  inquired  of  another  boy  why 
the  little  chap  was  unprovided  with  the 
needful  garment.  "  His  father  is  dead,"  was 
the  explanation,  "  and  his  mother  is  very 
poor."  Late  that  afternoon  the  little  fellow 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR  275 

was  summoned  to  a  personal  interview,  and 
approached  the  special  Mr.  Harper,  who 
called  for  him,  with  some  trepidation.  Had 
he  done  or  not  done  anything  for  which  he 
must  give  account  ?  A  key  was  put  in  his 
hand.  "  I  am  going  home,"  said  the  gentle 
man.  "  Wait  a  few  minutes  till  the  other 
boys  have  gone,  then  open  that  door  and  in 
the  closet  you  will  find  a  coat  that  does  not  fit 
me.  Put  it  on  and  wear  it."  The  coat  was 
new,  and  had  been  purchased  on  purpose  for 
the  boy. 

Miss  Booth  had  a  little  office  in  which  she 
sat  by  herself,  the  furniture  limited  to  a 
desk,  a  small  sofa  and  two  chairs.  Here  she 
could  be  solitary  when  she  chose,  but  a 
knock  at  her  door  was  always  answered  by  a 
pleasant  "  Come  in."  She  had  the  art  of  set 
ting  people  at  their  ease.  She  excelled  in  a 
more  difficult  role,  that  of  rejecting  manu 
scripts  without  wounding  the  sensitiveness 
of  disappointed  contributors.  I  am  sure 
that  Miss  Booth  never  possessed  a  type 
writer,  nor  asked  the  aid  of  a  stenographer. 
The  typewriter  and  the  telephone  were  intro 
duced  in  my  day. 

To  depict  even  faintly  the  hesitation  I  felt 
in  undertaking  the  duties  incumbent  on  this 


276  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

editorship  is  impossible.  Harper's  Bazar 
was  preeminently  a  journal  of  fashion. 
With  its  other  departments  I  was  familiar. 
In  these  I  was  assured  that  I  might  use  my 
own  discretion  and  introduce  such  changes 
as  I  deemed  advisable.  In  the  realm  of 
fashion  the  policy  of  presenting  the  newest 
styles  at  the  earliest  moment  and  of  illu 
minating  them  by  descriptive  articles  equally 
helpful  and  suggestive  to  the  professional 
dressmaker  and  the  plain  woman  at  home, 
must  continue  unaltered.  This  policy  could 
not  be  modified  without  the  sacrifice  of  fea 
tures  that  had  made  the  Bazar  popular  and 
had  kept  it  in  advance  of  its  competitors. 

The  Bazar  had  an  individual  field.  This 
it  had  occupied  with  ease  and  distinction. 
It  could  not  be  suffered  to  fall  below  the 
standard  it  had  hitherto  maintained.  The 
new  editor  felt  herself  at  a  loss  because  she 
had  never  cared  very  much  about  dress,  had 
been  indifferent  to  gowns  and  hats  so  long  as 
they  were  good  of  their  kind,  and  had 
habitually  minimized  time  spent  in  the  pre 
cincts  of  milliners  and  dressmakers.  This 
disability  was  overruled,  when  it  was  candidly 
set  before  Mr.  J.  Henry  Harper,  by  the  as 
surance  that  Miss  Shanks  had  for  years 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR  277 

taken  charge  of  the  fashion  descriptions, 
while  the  fashion  drawings  imported  from 
abroad  were  in  competent  hands  that  could 
be  implicitly  trusted. 

As  whatever  one  does  with  a  will  is  sure 
to  become  fascinating,  and  as  difficulties  van 
ish  from  the  path  of  the  person  who  is  de 
termined  to  surmount  them,  it  required  less 
time  than  I  had  feared  for  my  handling  the 
fashions  with  discrimination  and  enjoyment. 
In  the  initiative  I  owed  success,  such  as  it 
was,  to  the  dark-eyed,  graceful,  low-voiced 
Southern  woman  who  threw  into  her  weekly 
task  the  force  of  a  rare  equipment.  When 
ever  this  gentlewoman  went  in  search  of  in 
formation  on  the  topics  that  were  exclusively 
hers,  she  was  received  with  the  utmost 
courtesy.  Her  exquisite  manners  and  ex 
treme  conscientiousness  were  passports  every 
where,  and  guarded  doors  flew  open  at  her 
touch.  If  she  wrote  about  a  child's  frock,  a 
bride's  wedding  gown,  or  the  costume  of  an 
elderly  lad}'',  the  paragraph  made  invariably 
the  impression  that  upon  the  writing  she 
had  bestowed  care  and  thought.  More  than 
once  I  have  heard  her  say,  "  These  subjects  of 
mine  are  limited  in  their  scope,  but  they 
concern  women,  and  I  mean  to  treat  them  as 


2T8  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

well  as  I  possibly  can,  so  that  the  mother  or 
the  girl  who  is  making  her  own  clothing  may 
do  it  as  successfully  as  if  she  left  an  order 
for  her  outfit  with  a  house  in  Paris." 

Those  who  knew  Miss  Shanks  best  hon 
oured  her  the  more  because  she  had  waged 
an  almost  lifelong  battle  with  physical  weak 
ness.  She  had  not  passed  her  first  youth 
when  her  physician  told  her  that  her  single 
chance  for  life  and  health  lay  in  living  out- 
of-doors  all  the  time,  let  the  weather  be  fine 
or  inclement.  We  have  become  accustomed 
to  the  rule  of  outdoor  living,  to  spending 
hours  in  the  open,  in  rain,  fog  and  snow,  and 
to  sleeping,  if  need  be,  in  tents  or  verandas, 
but  the  habit  was  less  generally  adopted  when 
my  friend  began  her  brave  fight  against  an 
inherited  malady. 

In  the  last  two  years  of  her  life  the  effort 
constantly  made  to  keep  pace  with  the  de 
mands  of  her  work  was  little  short  of  heroic, 
but  she  rejected  pity,  would  accept  no  assist 
ance  and  never  showed  the  white  feather. 
The  last  copy  that  came  from  her  hand  to 
the  printer  was  in  type  on  the  morning  that 
she  died.  I  have  spoken  of  her  with  the  en 
thusiasm  that  thrills  me  when  I  think  of  the 
leaders  of  a  forlorn  hope.  Her  nature  was 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR  279 

essentially  womanly,  her  Christian  faith  was 
that  of  a  child,  she  faced  death  without  a 
tremor,  yet  held  him  long  at  bay  by  her  in 
domitable  determination  to  live.  She  was 
proud  of  her  birth  and  upbringing  in  Ken 
tucky,  and  the  old  state  never  had  a  daughter 
who  did  greater  credit  to  the  soil. 

That  we  were  able  to  fill  the  vacancy  made 
by  her  decease  without  an  interregnum,  and 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  subscription  list,  was 
only  another  proof  that  no  one  is  indispensa 
ble  in  this  world.  The  world's  work  goes  on 
with  no  visible  interruption,  in  spheres,  con 
spicuous  or  obscure,  although  the  workers 
drop  their  tasks. 

Addressing  a  club  of  young  women  at  Smith 
College  by  request,  on  the  general  subject  of 
journalism,  it  was  my  privilege  to  tell  them 
that  no  vocation  alluring  to  women  possessed 
wider  opportunities  and  richer  rewards  than 
this.  I  was  careful  to  explain  that  the  op 
portunities  and  rewards  were  frequently  not 
those  that  could  be  balanced  and  weighed 
and  measured,  that  they  were  less  of  the  ma 
terial  than  of  the  spiritual  ordering,  and  that 
they  might  best  be  estimated  in  Tennyson's 
line,  "  Give  us  the  wages  of  going  on." 

The  salaries  paid  to  women  in  the  newspa- 


280  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

per  world  are  liberal  if  they  reach  the  top, 
and  even  from  the  bottom  of  the  ladder  the 
feminine  worker  receiving  space  rates  for  her 
assignments  is  paid  as  generously  as  her 
brother  or  husband.  The  desk  of  the  editor- 
in-chief,  or  of  an  associate  who  holds  a  respon 
sible  position  of  management,  focusses  so  many 
converging  interests  that  it  is  like  any  other 
post  of  authority.  The  editor  has  an  under 
stood  responsibility  to  the  publishing  end, 
is  narrowly  watched  by  the  advertising  peo 
ple,  and  has  intimate  relations  with  artists 
and  writers,  with  men  and  women  of  almost 
universal  fame,  and  with  those  whose  stars 
have  not  yet  risen  above  the  horizon.  So  far 
from  cherishing  a  disposition  of  partiality 
towards  those  who  are  well  known  as  authors, 
every  successful  editor  is  happiest  on  the  dis 
covery  of  a  new  writer. 

It  is  a  red  letter  day  in  a  publishing  house 
when  some  one  absolutely  new  sends  the 
poem,  the  story,  the  essay  or  the  romance 
that  is  to  give  the  reading  world  surprise  and 
delight.  To  convince  the  novice  or  the  youth 
ful  aspirant  of  this  fact  is  very  nearly  impos 
sible,  yet  it  is  a  fact.  The  editor,  therefore, 
discounts  a  letter  of  introduction  accompa 
nying  the  manuscript  of  an  amateur,  while 


THE  LIFE  OF  AN  EDITOR  281 

he  or  she  relying  on  trained  judgment  and 
experience  arrives  at  conclusions  based  on  the 
manuscript  itself.  Thus  a  book  that  later 
reached  more  than  one  hundred  thousand 
readers,  one  day  drifted  into  a  publishing 
house  out  of  space,  its  author  entirely  un 
known  and  its  shape  not  attractive  at  the 
first  glance.  The  editor  to  whom  it  was  sub 
mitted  carried  it  home  for  perusal  and  could 
not  lay  it  down  until  long  past  midnight. 
Whoever  can  write  in  this  enthralling  man 
ner  will  sooner  or  later  receive  the  pleasure 
of  acceptance.  Perhaps  acceptance  may  be 
delayed. 

The  author  who  really  has  a  message,  who 
has  something  to  say  and  knows  how  to  say 
it,  need  not  be  discouraged  by  a  half-dozen 
successive  rejections.  The  little  printed  slip 
that  excites  so  much  indignation  in  the  minds 
of  those  to  whom  it  is  sent  tells  the  simple 
truth  in  its  statement  that  manuscripts  are 
not  declined  solely  on  account  of  demerit  on 
their  part.  The  editor  may  already  have  his 
shelves  overstocked,  or  the  wares  offered  may 
not  suit  his  peculiar  public.  Once  in  a  while, 
as  I  have  said,  a  manuscript  arrives  that  is  so 
strong  and  so  compelling  that  the  editor  can 
not  afford  to  refuse  it. 


282  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Be  it  understood  that  the  editor's  largest 
obligation  is  to  the  people  who  read  the 
magazine  and  who  are  at  the  other  end,  so  to 
speak,  of  his  telephone.  If  he  can  hear  their 
voices,  get  their  responses,  and  know  that 
week  by  week,  month  by  month,  year  by 
year,  he  is  furnishing  what  they  want,  his 
highest  ambition  is  satisfied.  A  much  larger 
number  of  men  than  of  women  are  engaged 
in  journalism. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  the  magazines  in 
tended  for  home  reading,  and  presumably 
read  by  women  to  a  greater  extent  than  by 
men,  are  at  present  edited  and  engineered  by 
men.  Concentration,  consecration,  and  tire 
less  energy  are  required  of  man  or  woman  in 
an  editorial  chair.  As  the  physician  feels  the 
pulse  of  a  patient,  the  editor  feels  the  pulse 
of  his  audience.  A  magazine  leaves  the  press 
and  is  swiftly  borne,  it  may  be,  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth.  Wherever  it  goes  it  appeals  to 
individuals.  Its  mission  should  be  to  dissi 
pate  melancholy,  soothe  pain  and  relieve 
tedium.  Unless  it  does  this  it  misses  its  aim, 
and  its  editor  is  responsible  for  its  failure  and 
is  in  the  position  of  the  commander  defeated 
in  battle. 


XXII 

PEN  PORTRAITS 

AMONG  those  who  never  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  office  without  bring 
ing  a  waft  of  joy  to  the  little  staff  of 
Harper's  Bazar  none  stands  higher  in  grateful 
memory  than  Charles  Dudley  Warner.  His 
manner  was  invariably  genial,  his  words  to 
the  point,  his  air  that  of  an  elder  brother. 
Mr.  Warner's  books  are  like  himself,  breezy, 
humorous,  virile  and  sensible.  Whenever  I 
read  them  I  hear  again  the  cadences  of  his 
voice  and  have  no  trouble  in  putting  the 
accent  where  it  must  have  been  in  his 
thought.  His  keen  blue  eyes,  clear-cut  fea 
tures  and  patriarchal  beard  joined  with  the 
dignity  of  his  presence  in  making  his  per 
sonality  impressive.  Others  might  discour 
age  one  who  was  faint  of  heart  and  ready  to 
look  on  the  dark  side.  Not  so  Mr.  Warner. 
He  had  a  bluff,  cheery,  cordial  and  emphatic 
way  of  bidding  one  expect  brightness,  and 
the  anticipation  was  usually  fulfilled  for  he 
was  something  of  a  seer.  His  death  made 
an  empty  place  in  many  lives. 

283 


284:  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Another  Great  Heart  has  only  this  year 
been  taken  away  from  us,  Edward  Everett 
Hale.  He,  too,  was  of  the  company  who 
now  and  then  had  errands  in  Franklin 
Square,  and  it  was  his  custom  on  such  oc 
casions  to  make  a  passing  call  on  the  editor 
of  the  Bazar.  A  massive  man,  tall,  with 
broad  shoulders  that  stooped  a  little,  with  a 
strong  earnest  face  and  a  kindly  hand-clasp, 
Dr.  Hale  did  not  need  to  pronounce  a  bene 
diction  since  he  always  left  one  un worded 
behind  him.  If  I  could  I  would  write  in 
letters  of  gold  in  the  room  of  every  girl  stu 
dent,  every  young  man  at  the  beginning  of 
his  career  and  in  every  business  office  his 
four  terse  rules  for  daily  living  as  he  gave 
them  to  us  in  "  Ten  Times  One  Is  Ten." 
"  Look  up  and  not  down,  look  out  and  not 
in,  look  forward  and  not  back,  and  lend  a 
hand."  From  the  days  of  his  youth  to  the 
sunset  of  his  venerable  age  Dr.  Hale  was 
always  lending  a  hand.  He  said  a  gracious 
word  to  me  years  before  I  met  him  at  Har 
per's,  and  it  lingered  with  me  like  remem 
bered  music.  That  meeting  was  half  acci 
dental  and  occurred  in  Boston  where  I  had 
gone  with  a  friend  to  hear  Dr.  Hale  preach. 
There  was  something  rugged,  calm  and  restful 


PEN  PORTRAITS  285 

in  Dr.  Hale's  look  and  manner,  and  only  a 
year  before  his  death  I  had  a  glimpse  of 
these  temperamental  qualities  in  reading  a 
letter  sent  by  him  to  a  young  friend  who 
showed  it  to  me.  Well  did  this  good  man 
represent  the  stock  from  which  he  came,  than 
which  there  is  no  finer  in  New  England. 

Laurence  Hutton  was  another  never-to-be- 
forgotten  associate  and  friend.  If  ever  man 
had  a  genius  for  friendship,  a  secret  of  at 
tracting  to  him  people  of  all  sorts  and  con 
ditions,  that  man  was  Laurence  Hutton.  His 
bonhomie  was  as  marked  as  his  simplicity 
and  candour.  His  home  in  West  Thirty- 
fourth  Street,  the  house  in  which  he  was 
born,  was  the  resort  of  scholars,  poets,  crafts 
men  of  various  guilds  and  professions,  and 
he  and  his  charming  wife  made  its  hospi 
tality  as  spontaneous  as  light,  as  fragrant  as 
the  breath  of  a  morning  in  June.  Mr.  Hutton 
had  travelled  extensively,  and  his  home  was 
almost  a  museum  in  the  variety  of  souvenirs 
brought  from  many  lands.  In  his  drawing- 
room  one  wintry  afternoon  I  met  Helen 
Keller,  then  a  child  of  fifteen,  and  saw  Mark 
Twain  impetuously  dash  the  tears  from  his 
eyes  as  he  looked  into  her  sweet  face.  She 
could  not  see  and  she  could  not  hear,  but 


286  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

she  knew  the  instant  she  crossed  the  Hutton 
door-sill  that  she  was  in  the  midst  of  friends. 
She  knew,  too,  that  everywhere  around  her 
there  were  books,  and  almost  her  first  obser 
vation  was,  "  I  have  never  before  been  in  a 
house  where  the  people  had  so  many  books." 
She  was  right,  Mr.  Hutton's  library  having 
every  apartment  for  its  own. 

Mr.  Hutton's  removal  to  Princeton  robbed 
New  York  of  a  social  attraction,  and  eclipsed 
the  gaiety  of  those  who  could  not  follow 
him  to  his  country  abode.  With  Mr.  Warner 
and  Dr.  Hale  he  left  many  to  mourn  him 
when  death  took  him  hence  in  the  meridian 
of  his  days. 

I  have  spoken  in  earlier  chapters  of  George 
Gary  Eggleston  as  I  knew  him  when  we  both 
were  young.  Mr.  Eggleston  is  not  one  to 
grow  old,  and  he  is  as  distinguished  a  figure 
and  as  charming  a  talker  now  that  his  hair 
is  gray  as  before  Time  had  taken  liberties 
with  its  earlier  hue. 

Two  or  three  little  recollections  cling  about 
my  thought  of  Mr.  Howells.  One  of  them 
is  that  he  once  showed  me,  written  in  a 
minute  hand  on  a  sheet  of  note-paper  in 
four  short  pages,  what  might  be  called  the 
skeleton  of  a  novel  which  he  was  about  to 


PEN  PORTRAITS  287 

write,  a  novel  that  has  been  a  prime  favour 
ite  in  the  long  list  of  its  author's  pro 
ductions.  Another  reminiscence  is  that  I 
drank  a  cup  of  tea  at  Mrs.  Howells'  table  of 
Mr.  Howells'  making,  where  he  smilingly  de 
clared  that  the  art  of  properly  making  tea 
was  too  difficult  to  be  mastered  by  women. 
Certainly  the  tea  was  perfect. 

Mrs.  Candice  Wheeler,  author,  artist  and 
presiding  genius  of  the  Society  of  Decorative 
Art,  is  another  whose  spirit  of  youth  has 
been  defiant  of  the  inroads  of  age.  About 
Mrs.  Wheeler  there  has  always  been  some 
thing  benignant  and  queenly.  Whether 
one  welcomed  her  into  the  little  office  in 
Franklin  Square  or  met  her  in  her  home  in 
New  York  or  at  her  lovely  cottage  at 
Onteora,  one  felt  the  grace  of  a  nature  deep, 
restrained  and  pure.  Mrs.  Wheeler  is  many 
sided.  She  has  an  extraordinary  talent  for 
organization  and  a  remarkable  gift  of  direc 
tion.  The  Woman's  Building  in  the  White 
City  at  the  Chicago  Exposition  of  1893  was 
the  expression  of  her  artistic  sense.  She  has 
poise,  serenity  and  gentleness,  and  her 
beauty  confers  a  distinction  on  the  rank  she 
most  prizes,  that  of  grandmother. 

Marion  Harland,  who  scored  a  triumph  as 


288  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

a  novel  writer  before  she  was  twenty  and 
who  has  never  ceased  performing  her  daily 
task  through  the  years  of  her  busy  and  useful 
life,  is  a  woman  whom  to  know  is  to  love 
and  honour.  A  Virginian  by  birth,  she 
loves  the  Old  Dominion,  and  her  manner  is 
that  of  a  gracious  Southern  matron.  Her 
pen-name  is  not  more  widely  known  than  her 
real  name,  Mary  Virginia  Terhune.  As  the 
wife  of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Edward  Payson 
Terhune  she  accepted  for  more  than  fifty 
years  the  multiform  responsibilities  of  a 
pastor's  wife,  presiding  at  one  time  over  an 
infant  school  and  again  teaching  a  Bible  class 
of  young  men.  She  has  published  many 
books,  and  has  proved  herself  the  friend  of 
thousands  of  American  women,  in  her  incom 
parable  manuals  of  housekeeping.  Here  she 
may  almost  be  said  to  have  blazed  the  path 
of  the  pioneer. 

I  was  a  guest  at  her  golden  wedding  little 
thinking  then  that  before  many  months  she 
would  be  left  alone.  On  the  day  that  Dr. 
Terhune  and  herself  entertained  their  golden 
wedding  guests  at  their  beautiful  home  in 
Pompton,  New  Jersey,  there  was  no  forebod 
ing  of  separation  to  come  before  another 
year  should  roll  around.  Yet,  as  in  every 


PEN  PORTRAITS  289 

chime  of  bridal  bells  when  youth  mates 
with  youth,  there  is  the  far-off  minor  tone 
of  a  knell,  so  when  golden  wedding  bells 
ring  there  must  be  the  hint  of  a  break  in 
their  melody. 

Mrs.  Terhune  has  been  an  eloquent  plat 
form  speaker,  is  popular  in  the  Meridian 
Club  of  which  she  is  an  active  member,  and 
still  writes  stories  for  the  press  in  which  the 
dramatic  element  is  as  marked  as  it  was  in 
her  earlier  days. 

Olive  Thorn  Miller,  who  entered  upon 
literary  work  after  she  had  brought  up  and 
launched  her  family,  is  a  woman  of  agree 
able  and  straightforward  address  whom  one 
would  best  describe  in  a  word  by  the  epithet 
motherly.  Mrs.  Miller  is  identified  in  the 
minds  of  most  of  her  admirers  as  a  woman 
who  has  studied  birds,  learned  their  ways, 
discovered  their  secrets  and  written  about 
them  with  infinite  charm.  During  my  ten 
years'  connection  with  Harper's  Bazar  she 
was  one  of  its  most  valued  contributors, 
writing  not  only  about  nature  and  our  little 
brothers  of  the  air,  but  as  well  on  domestic 
matters  and  the  training  of  children. 

Ruth  McEnery  Stewart,  winsome,  dainty, 
fearless  and  unsurpassed  in  delineating 


290  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Southern  life  before  the  war,  used  to  bring 
with  her  that  indescribable  air  of  grace  that 
has  always  been  characteristic  of  the  women 
of  Louisiana.  Mrs.  Stewart  came  to  New 
York  a  stranger,  but  there  was  in  her  mag 
netism  that  speedily  drew  to  her  a  host  of 
friends.  One  of  these,  Elizabeth  Bacon 
Ouster,  comes  to  my  mind  as  I  mention 
Mrs.  Stewart.  In  the  great  sorrow  that 
befell  the  latter  when  she  lost  her  only  son 
in  the  dawn  of  his  young  manhood,  Mrs. 
Ouster  remained  at  her  side,  strengthening, 
ministering  and  comforting  as  onty  one 
could  who  had  herself  drunk  deeply  of  the 
bitter  cup  of  grief. 

General  Ouster  and  she  were  married 
before  the  Civil  War  was  over.  She  shared 
his  military  life,  travelling  with  him,  living 
at  frontier  posts,  undergoing  cheerfully 
every  hardship  and  enjoying  every  hour 
until  in  an  instant  the  joy  was  turned 
to  lamentation.  Her  "  Boots  and  Saddles  " 
is  the  story  of  her  life  in  tent  and  field. 
Only  those  who  have  known  Mrs.  Ouster  in 
the  long  years  of  her  widowhood  since  1876 
can  fully  appreciate  her  rare  worth,  her 
charm  for  young  people  and  the  symmetry 
of  a  character  as  strong  as  it  is  sweet. 


PEN  PORTRAITS  291 

Mary  E.  Wilkins,  now  Mrs.  Charles  Free 
man,  achieved  success  in  the  first  story  that 
she  sent  to  Franklin  Square.  The  story  was 
about  two  old  women  who  were  established 
by  kind  friends  in  an  Old  Ladies'  Home. 
The  two  dear  women  ran  away  from  this 
asylum  in  which  they  felt  forlorn.  They 
liked  nothing  there  and  preferred  the  priva 
tions  of  the  little  house  to  which  they  were 
accustomed.  This  story  came  to  my  prede 
cessor,  Miss  Booth,  written  in  a  childish  un 
formed  hand,  and  she  thought  at  the  first 
glance  that  it  must  have  been  sent  by  a 
schoolgirl.  When  she  read  it  she  ex 
perienced  that  sense  of  delight  that  those 
know  who  discover  a  new  planet. 

Mary  Wilkins  had  the  gift  of  insight  and 
the  art  of  photography.  She  described  the 
quaint  characters  whom  she  had  known  in 
Vermont  and  Massachusetts  precisely  as  they 
were,  and  from  the  beginning  her  work  has 
been  greatly  appreciated  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic.  How  shall  I  paint  her  picture  ? 
She  is  demure,  shy,  unobtrusive  and  often 
silent,  but  she  is  silent  only  because  she 
does  not  choose  to  speak,  for  no  one  can  talk 
more  delightfully  than  herself.  She  reminds 
one  of  a  delicate  flower  that  has  bloomed  on 


292  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

an  austere  hillside.  I  am  disposed  to  think 
her  ghost  stories  even  better  than  her  stories 
of  New  England  life,  but  about  this  there 
may  be  two  opinions. 

There  are  others  whom  I  might  mention, 
but  for  one  reason  or  another  I  must  desist. 
How  shall  I  sketch  without  unfairness  this 
one  or  that  while  omitting  another  equally 
entitled  to  a  place  in  this  group  ?  There,  for 
instance,  is  one  who  came  often  always  bring 
ing  with  her  something  so  bright  and  charm 
ing  that  the  little  girl  at  the  typewriter 
would  look  up  with  a  smile  and  say  after  she 
had  gone  that  she  lighted  up  the  room 
though  the  day  were  dark  and  rainy. 

There  was  a  lady  well  on  in  years  whom  I 
associate  with  a  black  silk  bag  from  the 
depths  of  which  she  extracted,  week  after 
week,  manuscripts  of  interminable  length 
and  impossible  availability.  I  used  to  see 
her  enter  and  my  heart  would  sink,  for  it 
was  never  easy  to  bear  the  disappointment  in 
her  countenance  when  her  offerings  were 
found  unsuitable.  Nothing  daunted,  she  al 
ways  came  again. 

Then,  too,  there  was  the  perennial  poet, 
threadbare  and  poverty-stricken,  whose 
verses  did  not  pass  muster,  but  who  had  the 


PEN  PORTRAITS  293 

buoyancy  of  a  cork  and  an  amount  of  self- 
confidence  that  sent  him  away  compassiona 
ting  the  dullness  of  an  editor  who  did  not 
recognize  his  genius.  Poets  there  were 
whose  work  fills  an  honourable  place  in 
American  literature,  humourists  who  con 
tributed  to  the  fun  of  the  nation  and  lovely 
young  girls  full  of  plans,  intending  to  do 
great  things.  Some  of  these  have  reached 
their  goal ;  others,  it  may  be,  have  attained  to 
something  better  in  the  sanctity  of  domestic 
life. 


XXIII 

AS  MOTHER  CONFESSOR 

Y  what  witchery  do  you  understand 
girls?"  inquired  a  friend.  "To 
me,"  she  added,  "  they  are  the  most 
puzzling  of  human  beings."  If  I  understand 
girls  and  they  are  good  enough  to  treat  me 
as  though  I  do,  I  have  no  secret  except  the 
open  one  that  I  love  them.  Girlhood  is  to 
me  so  winsome,  so  beautiful  and  so  full  of 
possibilities  for  the  future  that  I  regard  with 
profound  thankfulness  the  confidence  I  re 
ceive  from  girls  in  their  teens  and  twenties, 
and  would  rather  lose  everything  else  that 
life  has  brought  me  than  part  with  their 
esteem. 

To  be  frank,  it  is  not  to  girlhood  alone 
that  I  have  held  the  post  of  mother  confessor 
in  the  last  decade.  Although  my  correspond 
ence  with  my  countrywomen  dates  back 
ward  thirty  years,  it  is  during  the  last  ten 
that  it  has  been  most  extensive,  most  per 
sonal  and  most  intimate.  Mothers  write  to 

294 


On  the  Verandah,  Glen  Ridge,  New  Jersey,  1905. 


AS  MOTHER  CONFESSOR  295 

me  with  a  freedom  and  candour  that  they 
would  find  impossible  if  they  met  me  face 
to  face.  The  barrier  of  distance  makes 
revelation  easy,  particularly  when  those  who 
write  to  me  are  aware  that  their  communica 
tions  will  be  held  inviolate. 

My  letters  are  not  limited  as  to  substance 
and  length  by  the  detail  that  my  correspond 
ents  do  not  personally  know  me.  A  closely 
written  epistle  covering  twenty-four  pages  of 
note-paper  is  not  an  uncommon  incident  in 
the  morning  mail.  Letters  arrive  from 
bachelors  weary  of  their  solitude,  from  fathers 
disturbed  over  the  conduct  of  children,  and 
from  baffled  swains  uncertain  how  to  inter 
pret  the  behaviour  of  the  adorable  one  who 
holds  them  aloof  while  yet  they  linger  al 
lured  to  the  dear  presence  like  the  moth  to 
the  candle. 

The  position  of  adviser  in  general,  of 
mentor  to  invisible  friends,  and  of  arbiter  in 
disputes  has  its  aspect  of  privilege,  but  is 
not  without  serious  responsibility.  The  tax 
on  sympathy  is  incessant,  all  the  more  that 
in  cases  manifold  sympathy  seems  inadequate 
to  the  occasion.  Yet  the  pleasures  of  the 
situation  outnumber  the  pains.  Glimpses  of 
heroic  lives  often  give  me  a  new  idea  of  the 


296  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

fortitude  and  courage  of  plain  people  who 
sound  no  trumpet  before  them  though  the 
Recording  Angel  writes  "  Well  done  "  beside 
their  names  at  the  close  of  every  toiling  day. 
Glimpses  of  an  opposite  character  are, 
alas,  not  infrequent.  When,  for  instance,  a 
young  woman  confides  to  me  that  she  is  so 
disillusionized  by  her  struggle  with  limited 
means,  and  so  weary  of  the  care  of  her  child 
that  she  has  decided  to  send  the  latter  to  her 
mother-in-law  and  leave  her  husband  to 
shift  for  himself  as  best  he  can,  in  order 
that  she  may  snatch  again  her  lost  freedom, 
I  am  reconvinced  that  all  rules  have  excep 
tions.  This  woman,  frankly  stating  that  she 
craves  rich  dress,  roses  and  admiration,  that 
she  wants  horses  to  ride  and  the  chance  to 
travel  and  see  the  world,  has  unfortunately 
become  obsessed  by  a  longing  for  the  stage. 
She  fancies  that  she  has  dramatic  ability 
and  is  sure  that  if  her  fetters  were  dropped 
she  would  soon  arrive  at  eminence  as  a 
singer  or  an  actress.  Seeing  with  the  ut 
most  clearness  that  she  is  simply  morbid 
and  selfish,  reading  between  the  lines  that 
her  heart  has  not  awakened  at  the  call  of 
wifehood  and  maternity  to  the  sacredness  of 
either,  I  try  as  best  I  may  to  win  her  away 


AS  MOTHER  CONFESSOR  297 

from  the  tempter,  and  impress  her  with  the 
loneliness  and  disappointment  that  must  be 
her  portion  if  she  persist  in  deserting  her 
home. 

"  I  am  the  last  of  my  family  at  home," 
writes  a  ranchman  of  the  Southwest.  "  I 
have  wide  acres  and  plenty  of  money,  but 
the  place  is  lonely  and  will  be  lonelier  yet 
in  years  that  are  coming.  My  brothers  and 
sisters  are  married  and  settled  in  different 
localities  in  their  own  homes,  but  my  father 
and  mother  are  with  me.  So  long  as  they 
live  I  do  not  wish  to  ask  any  woman  to  be 
come  my  wife.  In  the  nature  of  things  a 
day  will  dawn  when  I  must  sit  by  a  desolate 
hearth,  and  yet  at  the  present  time  I  can  do 
no  woman  the  injustice  of  courting  her 
when  I  can  offer  only  an  indefinite  engage 
ment.  While  my  mother  lives,  no  daughter- 
in-law  will  be  welcomed  here.  I  have  so 
long  remained  steadfast  in  my  relation  to 
the  dear  old  people  that  the  whole  family 
accept  the  sacrifice  of  my  life  as  natural,  and 
they  do  not  see  that  it  involves  self-denial 
for  me.  Now  tell  me  what  to  do." 

Here  is  a  problem  not  easy  of  solution. 
Undoubtedly  this  man  who  has  proved  him 
self  a  devoted  son  would  make  for  the 


298  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

woman  he  could  love  a  good  husband,  and 
the  right  woman  would  willingly  wait  for 
him.  But  where  shall  he  go  to  find  her  ? 
Holding  old-fashioned  ideas  of  love  and 
sentiment,  and  believing  as  well  in  propin 
quity  as  a  helpful  adjunct  in  affairs  matri 
monial,  I  perceive  that  his  wide  acres  and 
his  aged  parents  are  united  in  prolonging 
his  compulsory  bachelorhood.  Yet  I  sug 
gest  invitations  to  nephews  and  nieces, 
journeys  away  from  home,  more  confidence 
in  himself  and  a  possible  injustice  to  the  old 
mother  who  might  not  be  hostile  to  the 
coming  of  the  right  daughter,  if  only  she 
could  be  found.  I  remind  him  that  time  is 
flying  and  that  vacillation  and  postpone 
ment  can  in  his  case  have  but  one  result, 
that  of  leaving  him  isolated  to  no  purpose. 
My  patience  is  much  more  tried  when  I 
read  another  letter,  this,  too,  from  a  ranch 
man,  who  sends  an  inventory  of  his  cattle 
and  speaks  slightingly  of  the  young  women 
in  his  neighbourhood.  He  would  like  to 
marry,  but  has  no  time  for  courting.  "  I 
am  too  busy,"  he  says,  "  in  building  my 
fortune  and  laying  its  foundations  deeply 
and  strongly,  to  waste  my  time  in  getting 
acquainted  with  pretty  girls.  There  are 


AS  MOTHER  CONFESSOR  299 

those  of  my  own  class  in  the  country  from 
which  I  came,  and  when  I  become  a  million 
aire  I  will  cross  the  ocean  again  and  look 
for  one  of  them." 

I  read  the  letter  once  or  twice  to  be  sure 
that  it  is  written  in  good  faith,  and  conclud 
ing  that  it  is  I  answer  this  mistaken 
money-grubber  that  by  the  time  he  has 
amassed  the  gold  he  seeks,  youth,  health 
and  strength  may  be  laid  waste  and  he  will 
look  back  over  years  that  the  locust  has 
eaten. 

The  every-day  trials  and  perplexities  of 
young  girls   are   more  interesting  and  less 
disheartening  than  the  confidences  of  their, 
elders.     A  girl  stands  at  the  parting  of  the' 
ways,  she  is  uncertain  of  herself,  not  sure  of 
her  own  powers,  anxious  to  make  the  most 
of  her  opportunities  and  deeply  impressed1 
by  a  sense  of  duty.     The  girl  who  has  been 
liberally  educated  is  not  so  often  ambitious 
for  a  career  as  desirous  to  help  her  parents 
and    do   something   for   the   age   in   which 
she  lives.     Fifty  years  ago  it  was  taken  for 
granted  that  marriage  was  the  goal  of  every 
young   woman's    inmost   thought,   and   the 
aim    for    her    of    her    father   and   mother. 
While  it  is  everlastingly  true  that  home  is 


300  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

woman's  kingdom,  and  that  she  who  is  hap 
pily  married  reaches  a  divine  reality  of 
blessedness  surpassing  that  of  her  mateless 
sister,  still  single  women  are  not  objects  of 
pity.  There  are  numberless  avenues  for 
their  occupation,  and  a  girl  with  ordinary 
gifts  has  but  to  choose  that  employment  for 
which  she  is  best  fitted. 

A  girl  writes  that  she  has  been  teaching  a 
district  school  for  several  years,  and  that  she 
may  continue  teaching  at  her  discretion. 
She  gives  satisfaction  to  her  school  board, 
and  like  Cornelia  Blimber,  has  no  trouble  in 
bringing  the  children  on.  But  she  has  no 
wish  to  spend  her  life  in  pedagogy,  and 
more  and  more  the  schoolroom  is  becoming 
in  her  view  an  imprisoning  cell. 

Here  I  know  precisely  what  to  say.  No 
one  should  teach  who  is  not  in  love  with 
teaching,  and  no  one  can  do  the  best  work 
for  children  if  her  attitude  to  them  is  one 
of  weariness  and  distaste.  I  am  able  to 
suggest  other  avocations  to  a  young  woman 
thus  situated,  and  fortunately  I  can  tell 
her  of  instances  within  my  own  knowledge 
where  the  woman,  who  found  teaching  an 
unprofitable  drudgery,  has  made  a  brilliant 
record  in  business.  I  bid  her  burn  her 


AS  MOTHER  CONFESSOR  301 

ships,  look  for  something  to  do  and  when 
found  I  urge  her  to  throw  into  the  new  em 
ployment  all  the  energy  and  purpose  that  is 
in  her.  I  counsel  her  not  to  be  discouraged 
if  success  comes  slowly  at  first.  Whoever 
would  succeed  must  persevere.  The  advice 
is  trite,  but  it  needs  to  be  repeated  over  and 
over  in  one  or  another  form,  and  if  followed 
it  bears  good  fruit. 

The  girl  who  thinks  she  can  write  turns 
to  me  day  after  day,  and  for  that  matter  so 
do  her  mother  and  her  maiden  aunt.  I 
have  made  it  my  rule  to  write  to  each 
literary  aspirant  with  as  much  encourage 
ment  as  honesty  permits  me  to  give.  I  do 
not  conceal  the  probability  of  delay  and  dis 
appointment  in  nine  out  of  ten  who  are 
choosing  literature  as  their  profession,  but  I 
am  always  hopeful  that  the  tenth  corre 
spondent  may  be  the  one  before  whom 
stretches  a  rosy  future. 

To  the  girl,  and  her  name  is  Legion,  who 
is  in  love  and  does  not  know  it,  who  is 
afraid  of  Love,  distrustful  of  herself  and  re 
luctant  to  be  bound,  clinging  to  her  freedom 
as  a  bird  to  its  wings,  three-fourths  of  my 
letters  are  addressed.  Poor  child  !  She  has 
had  so  little  experience  in  the  hard  school 


302  FKOM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

of  life,  she  so  often  makes  mistakes,  and  she 
so  frequently  regrets  both  her  decisions  and 
her  indecisions  that  to  her  my  whole  heart 
goes  out.  As  her  mother  confessor  I  tell  her 
not  to  be  in  haste,  not  to  suffer  herself  to  be 
too  much  influenced  by  the  wishes  of  out 
siders,  though  they  happen  to  be  her  next  of 
kin,  and  not  to  permit  a  sordid  motive  to 
degrade  what  should  be  the  sacred  engage 
ment  of  an  entire  life. 

When  a  girl  writes  to  me  that  she  has 
broken  her  troth-plight  because  she  was  con 
vinced  that  she  did  not  love  the  one  to 
whom  it  was  given,  while  in  the  back  of  her 
mind  it  is  evident  that  she  thought  her 
suitor  would  not  accept  his  release,  I  am 
sorry  for  her  situation.  Full  well  I  know 
what  is  coming  next.  The  man  who  seemed 
to  worship  her  has  gone  his  way,  and  now 
he  is  paying  his  devoirs  at  another's  shrine. 
How  shall  she  win  him  back  ?  He  is  not 
again  to  be  captured,  and  she  cannot  with 
dignity  make  an  attempt  at  his  reallure- 
ment. 

The  puzzles  of  which  girls  tell  me  in  this 
and  other  directions  resemble  the  swift 
changes  of  a  kaleidoscope.  All  that  I  can 
do  is  to  persuade  them  of  the  necessity  to 


AS  MOTHER  CONFESSOR  303 

disdain  pettiness,  to  abate  no  jot  of  womanly 
grace,  and  in  every  circumstance  of  life  to  be 
true  to  the  highest  ideal  of  womanhood. 

Admitted  as  I  daily  am  into  households 
that  I  shall  never  see  in  the  flesh,  knowing 
the  names  of  the  children,  invited  to  sit  be 
side  the  couch  of  pain,  allowed  to  comfort 
the  mother  whose  world  is  shadowed  by 
bereavement,  offering  consolation  to  those 
who  tarry  in  the  house  of  mourning,  and 
sharing  the  gladness  of  those  who  step  buoy 
antly  into  the  house  of  feasting,  I  lift  my 
eyes  in  thankfulness  to  the  Father  above. 
It  is  worth  while  to  have  lived,  worth  while 
to  have  been  busy,  and  worth  while  to  have 
reached  my  present  milestone.  A  queen 
upon  her  throne  could  not  be  happier  than  I 
in  my  capacity  of  mother  confessor. 


XXIV 

AN  IDEAL  BIBLE  CLASS 

I  FANCY  that  if  the  professor  of  Greek 
or  Mathematics  in  a  university  were 
asked  which  of  his  many  classes  he  had 
found  ideal,  he  would  be  puzzled  to  give  a 
reply.  "  Every  class,"  the  professor  would 
say,  "  has  had  its  quota  of  fairly  conscientious 
students,  its  two  or  three  who  learned  with 
out  apparent  effort,  its  plodders  who  toiled 
for  all  they  gained,  and  its  dunces  who  never 
succeeded  in  passing  an  examination."  The 
professor  would  shake  his  head  and  laugh 
ingly  declare  that  by  a  strange  paradox  his 
classes  had  all  been  ideal,  while  none  of 
them  deserved  the  designation. 

I  taught  my  first  Sunday-school  class  be 
fore  I  was  sixteen.  Year  in  and  year  out 
until  a  very  recent  period  I  have  been  a 
Sunday-school  teacher,  and  unlike  the  pro 
fessor  I  have  no  difficulty  in  deciding  which 
among  many  classes  was  my  ideal  of  what  a 
Bible  class  should  be.  The  class  was  mine 
for  ten  consecutive  years.  It  numbered  never 

304 


AN  IDEAL  BIBLE  CLASS  305 

less  than  thirty  and  seldom  more  than  fifty 
young  women.  Of  these  the  youngest  was 
in  her  later  teens  and  the  eldest  in  her  early 
thirties.  We  had  a  room  entirely  to  our 
selves  during  a  large  part  of  our  beautiful 
time  together.  For  a  reason  that  escapes  me, 
probably  because  the  room  was  needed  to 
accommodate  a  rapidly-growing  school,  we 
were  compelled  during  my  final  three  years 
to  assemble  in  the  gallery  of  the  church 
where  the  pews  were  square  and  were  fur 
nished  with  chairs.  In  this  we  missed  some 
thing  of  the  privacy  that  we  felt  when,  after 
the  opening  exercises  of  the  school,  our  doors 
were  closed.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
quiet  of  the  large  church,  invaded  by  no  hum 
from  the  schoolroom,  was  an  advantage. 

In  this  class,  teacher  and  scholars  took 
their  work  in  grave  earnest,  and  did  during 
the  week  a  large  amount  of  faithful  study. 
It  was  taken  for  granted  that  we  were  all 
interested  to  discover  what  there  was  in  the 
lesson  that  was  meant  for  us  as  individuals 
and  as  a  class.  Different  parts  having  been 
assigned  to  different  groups  for  research  and 
reference,  we  were  certain  beforehand  that 
the  hour  would  be  too  brief  for  all  that 
we  wished  to  say.  Sometimes  a  book  or 


306  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

paper  in  which  an  interesting  article  or  chap 
ter  had  been  found,  or  a  poem  that  had  some 
relation  to  the  lesson  might  be  brought  to 
the  class.  Visitors  were  welcome,  and  occa 
sionally  the  teacher  changed  places  for  a  day 
with  a  friend  in  another  school  that  the  class 
might  have  the  advantage  of  a  different 
method  or  another  point  of  view. 

Not  the  teaching,  however,  made  this  class 
ideal  so  much  as  the  character  of  those  who 
were  taught.  They  were  drawn  from  every 
social  station  in  the  community,  and  there 
was  no  conscious  levelling  and  no  conscious 
looking  up.  One  of  the  dearest  girls  in  the 
entire  fifty  was  a  nurse-maid  in  charge  of 
little  children  in  a  household  near  the  church. 
She  was  of  German  parentage,  spoke  English 
imperfectly  and  had  left  school  before  she 
was  fourteen.  I  can  never  forget  the  radi 
ance  of  her  face,  the  gentleness  of  her  man 
ner  and  her  sweet  responsiveness  at  the 
name  of  the  Saviour  whom  she  loved  and 
served. 

Side  by  side  with  her  was  the  daughter  of 
a  judge,  a  girl  born  to  the  purple,  one  to 
whom  life  had  been  kind  from  the  cradle, 
and  who  had  every  advantage  of  wealth  and 
social  training.  Two  or  three  of  the  girls 


AN  IDEAL  BIBLE  CLASS  307 

were  teachers  in  the  public  schools,  others 
were  clerks  in  department  stores,  others  still 
were  preparing  for  college,  but  all  met  on 
common  ground  with  a  common  motive  and 
a  common  aim,  in  the  Sunday-school  class. 

From  time  to  time  as  the  sacramental  Sun 
day  returned,  members  of  the  class  gave 
public  testimony  to  their  faith  in  Christ. 
When,  as  they  often  did,  they  met  in  my 
home  on  a  week  evening,  there  was  no  stiff 
ness,  and  each  to  each  was  as  a  sister.  Their 
faces  come  before  me  as  I  write,  and  as  I 
have  been  able  to  follow  many  of  them  in 
the  years  that  have  intervened  since  we 
parted,  I  like  to  think  that  those  who  are 
living  have  fulfilled  the  sweet  promise  of 
their  youth.  There  are  some  who  have  heard 
the  homeland  call,  and  whom  I  firmly  believe 
the  Master  wanted  in  higher  service  than 
He  gives  to  those  who  tarry  here.  Of  my 
girls,  as  I  always  call  them,  those  who  re 
main  are  busy  and  useful  women,  and  what 
ever  their  circumstances  they  are  true  to 
their  pledges  and  illustrate  the  finest  type 
of  Christian  womanhood. 

We  were  not  satisfied  in  simply  enjoying 
ourselves  and  studying  the  Bible  in  this 
ideal  class  of  mine.  Within  our  circle  we 


308  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

organized  a  missionary  society  which  by  a 
happy  thought  we  named  The  Crystal.  Its 
object  was  to  cultivate  sympathy  with  mis 
sionary  effort  everywhere.  To  this  end  meet 
ings  were  held  monthly  either  in  the  parlor 
of  the  church  or  at  the  homes  of  the  mem 
bers,  and  it  was  my  custom  to  be  present  on 
every  occasion.  Indeed,  the  meetings  were 
so  full  of  brightness  and  enthusiasm  that  to 
miss  them  would  have  been  regretted  by  any 
one  enrolled  in  membership.  We  had  close 
affiliation  with  the  Home  Mission  work  of 
the  church  and  our  special  foreign  oppor 
tunity  was  found  in  the  support  of  a  student 
at  Ferris  Seminary,  Yokohama,  Japan. 

Nearly  thirty  years  have  passed  since  the 
Crystal  Missionary  Society  first  assembled, 
and  it  has  never  ceased  to  carry  forward  its 
work.  There  have  been  successive  students 
under  its  care  in  Ferris  Seminary,  and  it 
is  a  gratification  to  learn  that  two  of  its 
Japanese  wards  have  united  in  a  thank  offer 
ing  and  established  a  Crystal  scholarship  in 
their  Alma  Mater.  In  a  time  of  stress  and 
strain  our  beloved  church,  burdened  by  debt, 
resolved  to  be  rid  of  that  incubus,  and  the 
matter  was  taken  up  at  an  evening  prayer- 
meeting.  I  had  no  hesitation,  although  very 


AN  IDEAL  BIBLE  CLASS  309 

few  of  my  girls  were  present,  in  pledging  the 
class  to  an  offering  of  generous  amount. 
When  on  the  next  Sunday  afternoon  I  told 
them  what  I  had  done  they  unanimously 
agreed  to  do  more  rather  than  less  than  I 
had  ventured  to  hope  would  be  within  their 
power. 

There  exists  to-day  in  this  country  a  mod 
est  society  labelled  with  the  cabalistic  letters 
T.  M.  D.S.  The  uninitiated  do  not  know  that 
these  letters  stand  for  "  Ten  Minutes  a  Day  " 
and  that  whoever  joins  the  society  promises 
to  spend  ten  minutes  of  each  week  day  or 
one  hour  a  week  in  practical  Christian  work. 
The  T.  M.  D.  S.  was  the  bright  inspiration  of  a 
dear  girl  in  the  class,  and  to  enumerate  all 
that  it  does  and  all  that  it  means  in  its  work 
for  hospitals,  for  settlements,  for  fresh  air 
charities  is  not  within  my  province.  The 
society  is  an  organism  not  an  organization. 
It  exacts  no  dues,  though  it  has  a  treasurer 
and  receives  and  disburses  money.  Its 
balance-sheet  is  known  in  heaven,  but  is  not 
published  on  earth,  and  it,  too,  was  the  out 
growth  of  this  ideal  Bible  class. 

If  I  know  anything  of  the  matter,  this 
Bible  class,  so  full  of  friendliness,  so  sincerely 
reverent,  so  anxious  to  walk  in  the  steps  of 


310  FROM  MY  'SOUTH  UP 

the  Master,  illustrated  what  may  be  called 
Christian  socialism.  We  thought  nothing 
about  caste.  Every  one  of  us  would  have 
been  humiliated  at  the  idea  that  so  petty  a 
thing  as  a  caste  line  could  enter  into  our 
Eden.  Our  number  was  limited  to  fifty  for 
reasons  of  convenience  only.  Had  there  been 
space  for  our  meeting  we  would  gladly  have 
had  an  enrollment  of  two  hundred.  The 
stranger  in  our  midst  was  speedily  made  to 
feel  at  home,  and  if  there  was  one  who  ap 
peared  ill  at  ease  or  whom  we  imagined  had 
a  trouble  to  bear,  that  one  was  the  object  of 
unobtrusive  attention  and  genuine  kind 
ness. 

We  adopted  each  January  a  motto  for  the 
year,  but  the  gist  of  all  our  mottoes  was 
epitomized  in  "  Whatsoever  He  saith  unto 
you,  do  it."  Jesus  Christ  was  our  personal 
Friend,  and  the  endeavour  of  our  lives  was 
to  do  as  we  might  have  done  had  He  been 
visibly  in  our  midst.  I  cannot  doubt  that 
His  presence  and  blessing  were  ours  and  that 
it  was  in  our  trying  to  follow  Him  that  such 
success  as  we  had  was  attained. 

These  verses  were  written  for  the  class,  and 
in  them  something  of  the  class  spirit  finds 
expression. 


AN  IDEAL  BIBLE  CLASS  311 

God  gave  me  something  very  sweet  to  be  mine 

own  this  day  : 

A  precious  opportunity,  a  word  for  Christ  to  say  ; 
A  soul  that  my  desire  might  reach,  a  work  to  do 

for  Him ; 
And  now  I  thank  Him  for  this  grace  ere  yet  the 

light  grows  dim. 

No  service  that  He  sends  me  on  can  be  so  wel 
come  aye 

To  guide  a  pilgrim's  weary  feet  within  the  nar 
row  way, 

To  share  the  tender  Shepherd's  quest,  and  so  by 
brake  and  fen 

To  find  for  Him  His  wandering  ones,  the  erring 
sons  of  men. 

I  did  not  seek  this  blessed  thing ;  it  came  a  rare 

surprise, 
Flooding  my  heart  with  dearest  joy,  as,  lifting 

wistful  eyes, 
Heaven's  light  upon  a  kindling  face  shone  plain 

and  clear  on  mine  ; 
And  there  an  unseen  third,  I  felt,  was  waiting 

One  divine. 

So  in  this  twilight  hour  I  kneel,  and  pour  my 

grateful  thought 
In  song  and  prayer  to  Jesus  for  the  gifts  this  day 

hath  brought. 
Sure  never  service  is  so  sweet,  nor  life  hath  so 

much  zest, 
As  when  He  bids  me  speak  for  Him,  and  then 

He  does  the  rest. 


When,  as  I  sometimes  do,  I  hear  church- 
members  speak  slightingly  of  the  Sunday- 
school,  I  regret  that  they  know  so  little  of  its 


312  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

value  to  the  church.  As  well  might  a  family 
scorn  the  little  one,  a  college  ignore  the  pre 
paratory  school,  an  arm}^  decline  to  receive 
recruits,  as  a  church  of  Christ  show  itself  in 
different  to  a  Bible  school  for  its  children. 
Children  and  young  people  trained  in  the 
Sunday-school  form  the  strongest  element  in 
the  stability  and  aggressiveness  of  the 
evangelical  church.  A  church  that  has  no 
children  of  its  own,  if  such  there  be,  should 
go  out  into  the  highways  and  byways  and 
gather  the  children  in,  not  with  the  feeling 
of  patronage  and  condescension  that  occa 
sionally  slurs  what  is  called  a  mission  school, 
but  on  the  contrary,  with  the  warm  welcome 
bestowed  on  the  children  of  the  home. 
From  my  ideal  Bible  class  I  rejoice  to  say 
that  many  excellent  Sunday-school  teachers 
have  gone,  and  wherever  they  are  the  good 
seed  of  the  kingdom  by  the  law  of  progression 
is  being  multiplied  an  hundredfold. 

Removal  to  another  part  of  Brooklyn  and 
a  change  in  church  relations  compelled  me 
to  relinquish  my  charge  of  the  dear  class.  I 
asked  a  friend,  Mrs.  Charles  B.  Bartram,  to 
accept  the  work  that  I  laid  down.  In  the 
twenty  years  during  which  Mrs.  Bartram  has 
conducted  the  class  it  has  expanded  its  scope 


AN  IDEAL  BIBLE  CLASS  313 

and  increased  its  peculiar  usefulness.  To 
day  it  is  inclusive  of  members  whose  ages 
range  from  sixteen  to  sixty.  A  contingent 
of  young  mothers  with  little  children  forms 
a  delightful  feature  and,  if  possible,  its  spirit 
of  Christian  altruism  is  deeper  than  of  old. 
Mrs.  Bartram  is  a  brilliant  leader,  winsome 
and  magnetic,  and  she  gathers  about  her 
earnest  and  ardent  students  who  seek  the 
class  from  Sunday  to  Sunday  with  some 
thing  of  the  love  that  clings  to  home  and 
sanctuary. 


XXV 

FRIENDS  ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE 

I  AM  often  amused  when  I  hear  the 
children  talking  about  their  school 
mates  and  friends.  Girls  of  fourteen 
and  fifteen  speak  of  those  a  little  older  with 
an  air  of  condescension.  "  Clare  will  be 
eighteen  on  her  next  birthday,"  they  say, 
and  their  accent  intimates  that  poor  Clare  is 
almost  hopelessly  old.  Their  teachers  are 
usually  young  women  who  have  been 
recently  graduated  from  college  and  are 
anywhere  from  twenty-two  to  twenty-six,  if 
age  is  to  be  reckoned  by  birthdays.  The 
teachers  seem  to  the  children  antique.  They 
do  not  say  this,  but  the  thought  is  there, 
and  there  it  will  stay  until  they  learn  some 
thing  more  in  the  mysterious  book  that  we 
call  Life. 

At  seventeen  I  remember  having  been  ex 
asperated  by  the  persistent  courtesy  of  a 
man  ten  years  my  senior.  I  thought  him 
much  too  old  to  be  admitted  to  friendship, 
and  great  was  my  surprise  when  I  heard 

314 


FRIENDS  ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE     315 

some  one  speak  of  him  as  young.  Age  and 
youth  are  relative  terms.  The  great  advan 
tage  of  the  former  is  that  after  one  has 
reached  its  tranquil  Indian  summer,  she 
may  have  friends  all  along  the  line. 

One's  dearest  friends  are  presumably  those 
who  have  longest  held  a  place  in  knowledge 
and  acquaintance.  Those  whom  we  knew 
when  we  were  young,  who  have  a  common 
stock  of  memories  and  associations  on  which 
to  draw,  a  common  fund  of  experience,  must 
necessarily  hold  their  own  in  the  fastness  of 
our  regard.  With  one  friend  we  shared  the 
sorrow  that  laid  life  waste  in  a  yesterday 
that  blotted  out  our  sunshine.  Another  was 
with  us  on  our  wedding  day,  and  with  still 
another  we  strolled  hand  in  hand  through 
the  garden  and  the  wood  in  the  idyllic  days 
of  childhood.  Old  friends  are  very  precious, 
but  we  are  forced  to  confess  that  they  are 
by  no  means  the  only  precious  and  the 
only  essential  friends  whose  names  are  on 
our  muster-roll. 

Friendships  are  sometimes  laid  away  in 
lavender.  We  sometimes  outgrow  friends, 
or  the  divergent  roads  of  life  lead  them  so 
far  away  from  us  that  the  sense  of  intimacy 
becomes  blunted.  An  unused  tool  rusts,  so 


816  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

may  an  unused  friendship.  After  maturity 
we  grow  indifferent  to  much  in  our  friends 
that  we  once  thought  indispensable.  Matu 
rity  may  arrive  in  the  bloom  of  twenty,  in 
the  glow  of  fifty,  in  the  serenity  of  seventy. 
Who  can  tell  when  it  is  attained  ?  There 
are  fruits  that  ripen  early  ;  there  are  others 
that  need  the  crisp  cold  frost  to  give  them 
ripeness. 

The  friends  who  make  my  life  a  continual 
joy  are  many  and  varied  and  when  I  try 
to  count  their  number  I  am  bewildered. 
It  is  as  if  I  walk,  as  I  often  do  in  dreams,  in 
a  house  where  corridor  succeeds  corridor 
and  gallery  follows  gallery,  each  hung  with 
pictures,  not  one  of  which,  in  dreams  at 
least,  I  could  bear  to  miss.  To  limit  friends 
to  the  people  whose  education  and  training 
resembles  one's  own,  to  limit  them  to  those 
whose  creed  is  identical,  to  limit  them  in 
deed  in  any  way,  is  a  futile  and  foolish 
thing. 

I  have,  and  I  rejoice  to  say  it,  a  host  of 
friends  among  the  young.  When,  over  the 
telephone,  as  I  sit  at  my  desk,  a  girlish 
voice  that  I  do  not  know  asks  me  if  its 
owner  may  call  because  she  has  visiting  her 
a  girl  from  the  Pacific  coast  who  has  read 


FRIENDS  ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE     317 

"  Winsome  Womanhood  "  and  wants  to  meet 
its  author,  I  am  conscious  of  a  pleasure  that 
is  like  a  song  without  words.  Blessings  on 
the  girls ! 

Have  I  not  seen  their  sweet  responsive 
faces  in  college  chapels,  in  the  auditorium  of 
Northfield  and  in  the  halls  of  Young 
Woman's  Christian  Associations ;  and  has  it 
not  been  a  radiance  impossible  to  eclipse  to 
have  them  throng  about  me  while  our  talk 
fell  into  the  commonplaces  of  the  day  and 
the  day's  work  ?  As  I  think  of  my  girl 
friends,  an  ever-increasing  multitude,  my 
thoughts  go  farther  than  this  earth  and  I 
seem  to  see  a  ladder  rising  between  earth 
and  heaven  over  which  the  angels  tread. 

How  shall  I  forget  one  dear  girl  who  used 
to  come  to  me  in  the  Christmas  season  for 
an  hour  of  pleasant  talk,  a  girl  whose  every 
moment  was  filled  with  love  to  her  Saviour 
and  toil  for  Him,  who  knew  that  her  life 
here  must  be  short,  but  who  determined  that 
it  should  be  full?  With  a  blitheness  and 
courage  and  confident  assurance  that  were 
both  simple  and  heroic  this  girl  confronted 
daily  life,  and  faced  the  life  beyond.  She 
comes  to  me  no  more  in  the  Christmas  sea 
son,  but  she  is  still  mine  and  still  as  dear  as 


318  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

ever  and  far  more  alive  than  when  last  I 
talked  with  her,  and  I  shall  see  her  again. 
She  is  but  one  of  many  who  are  friends  be 
yond  the  sea. 

My  most  congenial  companions,  those 
whom  I  meet  oftenest  and  on  whom  I  de 
pend  for  most  of  cheer  and  strength  are 
young  enough  to  be  daughters  or  grand 
daughters.  Comradeship  is  delightful  when 
the  two  who  walk  together  enjoy  the  same 
books,  care  for  the  same  pursuits  and  under 
stand  the  same  jests.  A  friend  who  does  not 
see  the  fun  of  things  as  you  see  it  may  be 
much  beloved,  but  is  not  your  ideal  com 
rade.  A  love  of  books,  an  appreciation  of 
humour  and  a  broad  embracing  charity  are 
good  foundations  for  friendship.  Intoler 
ant  and  critical  persons  too  colour-blind  to 
see  another's  view-point,  or  to  perceive  that 
there  may  be  an  opposite  side  to  the  shield, 
never  remain  friends  long  at  a  time,  and 
are  incapable  of  true  friendship.  If  one  de 
mands  all  and  gives  nothing  one  cannot  be 
a  real  friend.  Friendship  is  built  upon  reci 
procity. 

My  friend  may  be  in  my  kitchen,  may 
make  change  for  me'  at  a  market  stall,  may 
help  me  on  and  off  a  street-car.  In  the 


FRIENDS  ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE     319 

days  when  it  was  ray  custom  to  ride  often 
in  street-cars  I  had  good  friends  among  the 
conductors,  most  of  whom  knew  me  and 
whom  I  knew.  One  whom  I  especially  liked 
inquired  who  was  my  favourite  poet,  and 
when  I  told  him  that  on  the  whole  I  thought 
Tennyson  was,  said,  decisively,  "  Byron  is 
the  poet  for  me." 

A  group  of  women,  who  sold  newspapers 
at  a  ferry  terminal  and  wore  three-cornered 
shawls  pinned  over  their  shoulders,  were 
friends  with  whom  I  exchanged  greetings 
morning  and  afternoon  for  nearly  a  decade. 
They  told  me  in  our  brief  communications 
about  their  homes  and  their  lives,  and  I 
knew  their  trials  and  triumphs.  I  was 
stronger  in  that  I  knew  their  affectionate 
prayers  were  offered  for  me  day  by  day. 
Unless  one  makes  friends  of  all  sorts,  and 
never  ceases  to  add  to  their  number,  a  time 
will  inevitably  come  when  life  will  be  shorn 
of  that  spice  of  interest  which  redeems  it 
from  dullness. 

I  knew  a  man  whose  work  on  a  newspaper 
occupied  him  until  long  after  midnight.  He 
sought  his  home  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the 
morning,  and  as  he  genially  chatted  with 
the  deck-hands  on  the  ferry-boat  they  learned 


320  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

to  watch  for  his  coming  and  confide  in  him 
as  in  a  friend.  One  summer  he  snatched  a 
brief  holiday  across  the  Atlantic  and  casually 
mentioned  to  one  of  his  friends  on  the  boat 
that  he  would  be  absent  for  a  while.  "  If 
you  are  going  to  London,"  said  the  man, 
"  maybe  you  would  take  a  run  to  a  little 
place  not  far  off  and  see  my  mother.  I  have 
not  seen  her  myself  for  seven  years,  but  it 
would  make  her  very  happy  if  a  gentleman 
like  you  would  tell  her  that  he  knew  her 
boy  in  America."  My  friend  made  a  note 
of  the  address,  and  although  his  stay  in 
England  was  short,  he  did  not  fail  to  devote 
one  day  of  it  to  searching  out  and  visiting 
the  mother  of  the  deck-hand.  Friendship 
can  take  trouble  to  give  pleasure.  In  friend 
ship  is  inherent  the  essence  of  democracy. 

An  element  of  friendship  that  should  not 
be  overlooked  is  its  elasticity ;  another  is  its 
privilege  of  anticipation  ;  still  another  is  its 
sunny  optimism.  We  believe  the  best  of  our 
friends.  We  are  always  expecting  that  at 
the  next  turn  in  the  road  a  friend  hitherto 
unknown  will  suddenly  step  forward  with 
outstretched  hands.  We  are  willing  to  allow 
our  friends  entire  liberty  to  disagree  with  us 
in  matters  that  are  not  fundamental.  We 


FRIENDS  ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE     321 

are  not  offended  at  a  friend's  vernacular  or 
disturbed  if  a  friend  dresses  oddly  or  prefers 
a  manner  of  life  unlike  our  own. 

I  have  friends  who  wear  the  quaint  garb 
of  the  Shakers  and  have  spent  their  lives 
from  childhood  to  old  age  on  a  hilltop  in 
Now  York  State,  seldom  going  far  from  the 
boundaries  of  their  little  community.  From 
these  quiet  folk  messages  come  to  me  as 
straight  from  the  heart,  as  sincere  and  wel 
come  as  others  from  those  who  are  familiar 
with  all  that  art  and  science,  travel  and 
culture  can  impart. 

When  our  Lord  was  about  to  take  leave  of 
His  disciples  He  said  to  them,  "  I  have  not 
called  you  servants.  I  have  called  you 
friends."  In  the  key-note  of  our  friendship 
with  Him  we  may  begin  to  understand  the 
lesser  melodies  that  vibrate  through  human 
friendship. 

Miss  Waring's  familiar  lines  fit  in  with 
our  thought  of  friendship's  obligations  and  of 
the  chain  that  links  it  to  the  service  of  God. 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 

Is  portioned  out  for  me ; 
And  the  changes  that  must  surely  come 

I  do  not  fear  to  see. 
I  ask  Thee  for  a  present  mind 

Intent  on  pleasing  Thee, 


322  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

I  ask  Thee  for  a  thoughtful  love, 
Through  constant  watching  wise, 

To  meet  the  glad  with  joyful  smiles 
And  wipe  the  weeping  eyes  ; 

And  a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself, 
To  sooth  and  sympathize. 

Wherever  in  the  world  I  am, 

In  whatsoe'er  estate, 
I  have  a  fellowship  with  hearts 

To  keep  and  cultivate  ; 
And  a  work  of  lowly  love  to  do, 

For  the  Lord  on  whom  I  wait. 


There  is  a  hymn  which  has  for  its  refrain 
"  Take  time  to  be  holy."  I  wish  there  were 
one  which  should  bid  us  take  time  to  be 
friendly.  What  with  our  ocean  steamers 
racing  from  coast  to  coast  in  less  than  five 
days,  with  our  motor-cars  speeding  at  a 
terrific  rate  and  annihilating  distance,  with 
our  flying  express  trains  and  the  tremendous 
hurry  of  our  lives,  we  are  in  danger  of  sacri 
ficing  friendship  on  the  altar  of  haste. 
Friendship  cannot  thrive  in  the  Babel  of 
modern  drawing-rooms  where  every  one  is 
talking  at  once,  and  every  one  is  hurrying 
on  to  keep  the  next  appointment.  Friend 
ship  cannot  reach  its  best  expression  on 
postal  cards  that  have  taken  the  place  of  the 
four  and  six  page  letters  that  used  to  burden 


FRIENDS  ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE     323 

the  mails.  If  we  would  have  people  to  love 
us  we  must  take  time  to  reveal  our  love. 
The  Bible  tells  us  that  a  man  that  hath 
friends  must  show  himself  friendly. 


XXVI 

THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME 

THE  touch  of  time  on  a  moss-grown 
ruin  is  caressing  and  decorative. 
Venice  and  Florence,  Dublin  and 
Edinburgh,  London  and  Paris  surpass  the 
cities  of  our  country  because  they  have  had 
centuries  in  which  to  grow  beautiful,  while 
we  are  still  so  new  that  our  brightness  is  apt 
to  be  glaring.  A  human  ruin  is  less  attract 
ive  than  the  ruin  of  a  bridge,  a  tower  or  a 
temple.  No  doubt  this  is  why  most  of  us 
deprecate  the  silent  advance  of  the  years. 

A  woman  said  to  me  not  long  ago  as  we 
sat  together  in  my  country  home,  "How  do 
you  like  this  business  of  growing  old  ?  For 
myself  I  hate  it." 

As  I  looked  at  her  I  saw  the  same  dancing 
eyes,  the  same  merry  smile,  the  same  elu 
sive  charm  that  had  been  hers  fifty  years 
ago.  She  had  lost  neither  sight  nor  hearing, 
and  though  she  was  some  years  past  three 
score  and  ten,  the  youth  in  her  was  domi 
nant  still.  "  Why  should  you  hate  it  ?  "  I 

324 


THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME  325 

asked.  "  You  have  kept  everything  that 
was  best  and  parted  with  little  that  you 
need  regret,  so  far  as  you  yourself  are  con 
cerned." 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question,"  she 
insisted.  And  I  was  obliged  to  admit  that 
if  only  Time  would  let  me  I  would  be  glad  to 
stay  where  I  am  since  there  is  no  chance  of 
going  back  twenty  or  thirty  or  forty  years. 
Time  is  our  silent  partner  in  this  business  of 
growing  older  in  which  we  all  engage.  He 
begins  to  check  off  our  debt  to  him  little  by 
little  almost  from  the  beginning  of  life  till 
the  very  end.  We  are  not  alarmed  by  the 
fact  that  this  lifelong  partner  of  ours  is 
oftener  an  antagonist  than  an  ally,  because 
his  touch  on  our  shoulder  is  lighter  than  a 
feather  and  his  foot  at  our  side  is  as  sound 
less  as  a  snowflake.  We  slip  by  impercepti 
ble  degrees  from  one  stage  to  another,  and  so 
long  as  we  are  able  to  enjoy  and  to  suffer, 
to  love  and  to  sympathize  and  can  do  our 
day's  task  without  abatement  of  vigour, 
mental  or  physical,  we  are  really  young 
whatever  masque  we  may  wear. 

The  first  danger-signal  that  reaches  us  in 
this  progress  that  we  all  share  is  hoisted  on 
the  day  when  we  are  pleased  to  be  told  that 


326  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

we  look  precisely  as  we  did  ten  years  ago. 
This  statement  is  absurd  when  made  to  one 
who  is  twenty-five  or  thirty.  The  latter 
landmark  indicates  for  a  woman  that  she 
has  arrived  at  the  highest  point  of  develop 
ment  in  beauty.  Before  thirty  she  is  still 
a  partially  expanded  bud,  but  now  she  is  the 
rose  in  bloom.  The  years  between  thirty 
and  forty  are  so  beautiful  and  fascinating 
that  no  one  can  think  of  herself  as  other  than 
young  until  she  reaches  her  fortieth  year. 
Yet  it  is  in  those  years  of  supreme  and 
queenly  distinction  that  most  women  begin 
to  regret  a  little  the  rounded  cheek,  the  be 
witching  dimples  and  the  delicate  complex 
ion  of  the  girl  in  her  teens.  Time,  however, 
is  their  friend  and  champion,  and  if  he  robs 
them  of  anything  it  is  merely  of  crudeness. 

At  fifty,  a  twentieth  century  woman  in 
Occidental  lands  is  in  the  meridian  of  her 
life's  day.  She  stands  at  the  summit  of  her 
powers,  and  if  her  health  and  vigour  at  this 
season  be  unimpaired,  she  may  confidently 
anticipate  a  long  level  stretch  of  country 
through  which  she  may  walk  with  buoyant 
step. 

For  me  the  years  between  fifty  and  sixty 
were  spent  in  editorial  work  of  the  most 


THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME  327 

absorbing  nature,  and  the  years  after  sixty 
have  been  those  in  which  I  have  written  and 
published  a  goodly  number  of  books.  I  find 
in  myself  to-day  the  same  spring  of  desire  to 
learn  all  that  I  can,  to  read  and  study  that 
has  been  mine  from  childhood ;  the  same 
impulse  to  undertake  the  difficult  enterprise 
whatever  it  may  be,  and  the  same  readiness 
to  throw  caution  overboard  and  attempt  a 
task  that  requires  labour  and  pains,  that  I 
have  had  at  any  previous  moment.  I  sus 
pect  though  that  I  must  be  growing  older 
because  I  am  so  complimented  when  friends 
assure  me  that  I  am  looking  young.  I  have 
noted  with  a  faint  concern  the  dawnings  in 
myself  of  resentment  when  young  people 
force  me  to  a  seat  in  a  public  conveyance  on 
the  frankly  stated  ground  that  they  cannot 
permit  any  one  of  my  age  to  remain  stand 
ing- 
Eight  years  ago  I  exchanged  my  Brooklyn 
home  for  one  in  a  pleasant  New  Jersey 
suburb,  and  a  day  or  two  before  I  was  com 
pletely  settled  in  my  new  abode  I  had  an  in 
terview  with  a  cabinet-maker  in  the  neigh 
bouring  village  of  Bloomfield.  The  man  was 
about  to  show  me  something  for  which  I  in 
quired,  and  said  that  he  would  ask  me  to 


328  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

step  up-stairs.  I  overheard  his  son,  a  youth 
of  twenty,  remonstrating  with  him  sotto  voce, 
"  You  are  not  going  to  ask  her  to  go  up-stairs, 
father,"  and  I  was  not  grateful  for  his 
thoughtfulness. 

The  same  shock  comes  to  every  one  in 
time.  When  a  man,  still  young  but  with 
hair  turning  gray,  seeks  a  business  position 
and  is  told  to  his  surprise  that  the  firm  is 
looking  for  his  juniors,  he  feels  for  a  moment 
that  his  world  is  falling  to  pieces.  There  are 
professions  in  which  white  hairs  and  length 
ened  years  do  not  count  as  disabilities.  The 
great  surgeon  continues  to  be  trusted  long 
after  fifty,  the  statesman  retains  his  hold  on 
the  public  confidence  till  he  reaches  four 
score,  and  the  famous  lawyer  commands 
large  retainers  until  he  chooses  to  drop  his 
work  and  retire  into  private  life.  Every 
thing  in  these  cases  depends  on  the  personal 
equation.  In  other  departments  youth  is  at 
the  helm  and  age  is  too  often  pushed  aside 
on  the  score  of  feebleness  or  incompetence. 

Julia  Ward  Howe  celebrated  her  ninetieth 
birthday  a  little  while  ago,  and  her  friends 
rejoice  to  know  that  her  intellectual  force 
remains  unimpaired.  Harriet  Prescott  Spof- 
ford,  a  woman  whose  grace  and  loveliness 


THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME  329 

have  only  been  heightened  by  the  touch  of 
Time,  writes  at  seventy-five  stories  that 
move  one  to  laughter  or  to  tears  and  is  as 
spontaneous,  clever  and  versatile  as  any 
woman  in  literature,  let  her  age  be  what  it 
may. 

Edward  Everett  Hale  was  in  full  possession 
of  his  splendid  mental  equipment  until  the 
lamented  day  of  his  death  at  eighty-seven. 

A  little  while  ago  I  made  the  usual  call  of 
courtesy  upon  a  lady  who  had  come  to  make 
a  visit  in  my  neighbourhood.  Our  little 
borough  resembles  Mrs.  Gaskell's  English 
village  of  Cranford.  The  men  leave  it  in 
the  daytime,  and  except  for  the  doctor,  the 
minister,  the  station  agent  and  postmaster, 
the  place  is  left  to  women  and  children. 
We  women  regard  calling  as  an  important 
duty,  and  informal  afternoon  tea  as  a  sacred 
rite.  Not  to  call  upon  a  stranger,  not  to 
notice  the  arrival  of  a  friend's  friend  is  to 
show  oneself  singular.  When  I  made  my 
call  there  descended  to  meet  me  a  tall,  erect 
and  benignant  matron  who  moved  into  the 
room  without  hurry,  but  with  ease  and  dig 
nity.  A  friend  had  accompanied  me  and 
after  a  while  our  conversation  turned  upon 
the  routine  of  the  week,  missionary  meet- 


330  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

ings,  dinners  and  assemblies.  The  lady  on 
whom  we  were  calling  excused  herself  from 
accepting  an  invitation  that  was  pressed 
upon  her  with  the  remark,  "  When  a  woman 
has  almost  reached  her  ninetieth  year  she 
cannot  do  everything  that  she  did  when  she 
was  younger."  This  dear  lady  reads  the 
latest  books  and  discusses  them  delightfully, 
goes  to  and  from  the  library  to  make  her 
selections  and  is  as  full  of  interest  in  current 
happenings  as  are  her  granddaughters. 

I  recall  with  gratitude  my  acquaintance 
with  a  venerable  matron  whose  home  was 
in  Pittsfield,  Massachusetts.  She  was  past 
eighty  when  I  met  her  and  was  then  writing 
scientific  articles  for  a  technical  magazine 
and  editing  a  department  in  the  weekly 
newspaper.  When  she  was  nearly  sixty  her 
son,  a  medical  student,  lost  his  eyesight,  but 
was  able  to  keep  on  with  his  studies  because 
his  mother  took  them  up  and  studied  with 
him  until  he  successfully  passed  his  exami 
nations  and  received  his  degree. 

The  secret  of  remaining  young  is  not  in 
externals ;  it  lies  far  deeper.  The  fountain 
of  youth  is  in  the  soul.  In  vain  are  cosmet 
ics  and  dyes  and  other  artifices  for  the 
cheating  of  Time.  Whoever  would  grow  old 


THE  TOUCH  OF  TIME  331 

gracefully  must  do  so  graciously.  To  re 
main  receptive  to  good  influences,  to  keep 
young  people  about  one  and  share  their 
ambitions  and  hopes,  to  continue  in  love 
with  love  and  to  go  on  working  steadily  pre 
cisely  as  in  earlier  days,  these  are  the  recipes 
for  being  young  to  one's  latest  day. 

GBOWTtfG  OLD 

Is  it  parting  with  the  roundness 

Of  the  smoothly  moulded  cheek  t 
Is  it  losing  from  the  dimples 

Half  the  flashing  joy  they  speak  f 
Is  it  fading  of  the  lustre 

From  the  wavy  golden  hair  f 
Is  it  finding  on  the  forehead 

Graven  lines  of  thought  and  care! 

Is  it  dropping — as  the  rose-leaves 

Drop  their  sweetness,  over-blown — 
Household  names  that  once  were  dearer, 

As  familiar  as  our  own  ? 
Is  it  meeting  on  the  pathway 

Faces  strange  and  glances  cold, 
While  the  soul  with  moan  and  shiver 

Whispers  sadly,  "  Growing  old  "  f 

If  the  smile  have  gone  in  deeper, 

And  the  tear  more  quickly  start, 
Both  together  meet  in  music 

Low  and  tender  in  the  heart ; 
And  in  others'  joy  and  gladness 

When  the  life  can  find  its  own, 
Surely  angels  lean  to  listen 

To  the  sweetness  of  the  tone. 


332  FROM  MY  YOUTH  UP 

Nothing  lost  of  all  we  planted 

In  the  time  of  budding  leaves, 
Only  some  things  bound  in  bundles 

And  set  by — our  precious  sheaves  j 
Only  treasure  kept  in  safety 

Out  of  reach,  away  from  rust, 
Till  the  future  shall  restore  it, 

Richer  for  our  present  trust. 

On  the  gradual  sloping  pathway, 

As  the  passing  years  decline, 
Gleams  a  golden  love-light,  falling 

Far  from  upper  heights  divine ; 
And  the  shadows  from  that  brightness 

Wrap  them  softly  in  their  fold, 
Who  unto  celestial  whiteness 

Walk,  by  way  of  "growing  old." 


THE    END 


IN    MEMORIAM 

Margaret  E.  Songster,  Born  February  22,  1838 
Died  June  4,  JQI2 

BY  MARGARE1  E.   SANGSTER,  JR. 

A  SHADOW  dark  against  the  summer  sky; 
A  murmuring  of  angels  up  above; 
The  sound  of  wings,  as  little  birds  that  fly 

Away  from  earth.     In  spite  of  all  the  love 
You  bore  us,  still  you  could  no  longer  stay. 
,  The  years  fly  swiftly  on,  and  now  we  see 
The  coming  of  a  once  so  happy  day. 

It  seems  as  if  your  presence  ought  to  be 
.Here  on  the  earth — to  hear  the  earth's  good  will — 

Your  birthday !     Ah,  I  see  you  in  your  place ! 
Your  gentle,  loving  voice,  I  hear  it  still; 

And  smiles  kiss  teardrops  as  I  dream  your  face. 
Ah !  though  your  soul  has  gone  to  rest  above, 
The  world  still  knows  the  sunshine  of  your  love. 


The  death  of  Margaret  E.  Sangster  removes  a  great  soul  and  sweet 
personality  from  our  midst.  Her  character  was  very  symmetrical. 
She  was  pious  without  being  sentimental,  and  tender  without  being 
weak.  She  has  been  the  instructor  of  thousands  of  homes,  devoting 
herself  very  largely  to  making  home  life  beautiful.  In  her  auto 
biography,  "From  My  Youth  Up,"  she  has  thus  summed  up  her 
mission :  "Such  work  as  I  have  done  has  concerned  itself  chiefly 
with  home  life  and  with  helping  tired  folk  to  take  fresh'  courage 
and  bear  their  burdens  cheerily  and  without  complaint.  It  has  been 
my  wish  all  along  to  show  the  opportunities  that  come  to  those  in 
obscure  places,  who  take  the  days  one  by  one,  and  use  them  each 
as  a  gift  from  a  loving  Father."  She  has  been  connected  with  many 
religious  papers,  and  her  writings  would  fill  innumerable  books. 
Best  known  among  these  are  "Fairest  Girlhood,"  "Winsome  Woman 
hood"  and  "Janet  Lee,"  which  have  sold  into  many  thousands.  She 
was  constantly  speaking  in  public,  and  hardly  a  church  society  or 
women's  club  anywhere  but  heard  her  cheering  words.  She  has 
also  written  some  poetry,  which  has  been  intimate  and  helpful.  Her 
pen  was  busy  writing  good  news  to  the  last.  Here  are  the  last 
words  she  wrote,  which  appear  in  "The  Christian  Intelligencer,"  of 
which  she  was  one  of  the  editors :  "The  May  days  are  hastening  on 
to  the  loveliness  of  June.  Everywhere  the  trees  are  clothed  with 
verdure,  the  flowers  lift  their  exquisite  faces,  and  the  birds  are 
singing  and  flitting  gaily  around  the  eaves.  As  we  stroll  thru  the 
garden  or  the  woods,  we  seem  to  hear  our  Savior  saying,  'Consider 
the  lilies,  how  they  grow.  They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin.'  We 
who  toil  and  spin  and  grow  weary  with  labor  and  meet  disappoint 
ment  and  endure  sorrow  should  stop  in  these  spring  days  to  let  the 
voice  of  Jesus  say,  'Come  unto  me  and  rest.' " 

Jl 


DATE  DUE    J\Jl 


JS87 


PRINTED   IN    US   A. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


I   II   I  II   III   II  ill    HI  i  1 1  1 1 

AA    001  260  599  4 
PS2-768    A4    1909 

.Sangster,  .Margaret   Elizabeth 
.Munsan,     1838-1912. 
From  my   youth  up 


3  1210  00618  7858 


